Speak Softly
by Kasey D
Summary: As the war escalates to dangerous new heights, Harry, Ron, and Hermione find themselves getting drawn deeper into a battle where the lines between right and wrong aren't as clear-cut as they would imagine. Ron/Hermione, Harry/Hermione, Harry/Ginny
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Speak Softly (1/?)

**Summary: **War can be reason for insanity. A series of vignettes chronicling Ron's, Hermione's, and Harry's life towards the end of the war.

**Pairings:** Ron/Hermione, Harry/Hermione

**Genre:** angst, drama, tragedy, horror, post-hogwarts, pre-HBP

**Note:** I'm quite excited about this story. I started out wanting it to be a one-shot pertaining to the relationship between Ron and Hermione, and it was supposed to take place on the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts but then... then it morphed into this monster. Hopefully you can enjoy it.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**Edited 6/29/2010**: Minor spelling errors were corrected.

* * *

_"If I thought my answer were to one who ever could return to the world,_

_this flame should shake no more; but since none ever return alive from this depth,_

_if what I hear be true, without fear of infamy I answer this."_

_- Guido da Montefeltro, Dante's **The Divine Comedy**_

* * *

He never liked asking questions.

To Ronald Weasley, questions were useless. They could only lead to things that were disappointing - that weren't what anyone wanted to hear. He learned, some time ago, that nothing could be what one wanted it to be... that was selfish and greedy, and if he allowed himself to be that way, then maybe instead of helping to protect people and wondering what exactly caused people to murder in cold blood - to take the life of children, women, and those who were defenseless - _Avada Kedavra_ would spoken from his mouth instead of others. He would be the one feeling that burning, gut-wrenching pain in his arm. He would be the one sacrificing himself to another, just so one, cold, abandoned, vengeful man could seek revenge on those who had done him wrong.

But, then again, even though it had been _one person_ who had stripped him of his humanity, everyone else was like him. Everyone else who shared the blood of those who hated _wizards,_ or _witches_, or _squibs_ and _muggleborns_ - they would be just like that one man who favored prejudice over love and... wasn't he just like his father? Although, he hated muggles, hadn't he? He didn't hate wizards; he didn't hate the blood which made him hated and scorned. Instead, he had hated the blood which had done him wrong. But, in the end, it had been the blood of a _wizard_ that had done him the most wrong, because it had caused his father to turn his back on him. It had caused those around him, who had separate views, to hate him.

They didn't hate his muggle blood, although Ron knew that Voldemort did. They hated the wizard. Just like his father, they hated the wizard that he had become, not the wizard which he had once been.

Somehow, Ron found that ironic.

But, he didn't ask questions.

It wasn't really his place after all. But he knew that he wouldn't change what he was, just for a bit of revenge. Somehow, that just didn't make much sense to him. He didn't think he could look that deeply anyways, because then he would see what was wrong with _himself_ and the more he questioned everything around him, the quicker he would become bitter and resentful.

_Like Percy._

He had become hateful too, hadn't he? He had tried to get more than what he had, originally, because he was never happy. He hated his father, if Ron really thought about it - although it hurt him to do so, because Percy was his brother, and any mistakes that he would make, he would learn from them, even if he never really wanted to - he was like Voldemort in that aspect. But, then again, so was Harry. Because he had been orphaned, abandoned, left on his own. His parents had been killed - not by him, but it could have been as such, since he was the reason _why_ they died - and Voldemort's parents had been killed, by him, and he was the reason why they died. And in a sense, Harry had hated his father for leaving him by himself as well (_Why did they have to die? Why did they have to die for me?_ He could remember that, too, and somehow, that just made it all the worse. But he didn't question why it had happened that way, he simply accepted it.) but he was thankful for his sacrifice all the same.

Maybe that's what made it worse. Maybe that's why all he could draw were parallels.

But, if he were completely honest, _he_ resented his father as well. It hadn't been his fault, not really, although at the same time, it was. His father could have tried harder, but he didn't, and he had accepted that. Because through everything, his father had still loved him and cared for him and kept him safe. And that was all he wanted at the time.

But as soon as he went to school, everything changed.

He could still feel the burning sensation, somewhere within his chest, whenever he was forced to listen to those cruel insults, targeting his parentage. Targeting his wealth. Ron had always known that he was poor, had always known that he wasn't as rich as others, or as lucky as others and - others had always made sure to throw it in his face. Of course, they never really _meant_ to. Not Harry or Hermione. No. They knew how he felt about it, how he only really liked accepting gifts from his family, except on Christmas or his birthday, and they had accepted it. Of course, they probably wouldn't have bought him anything outside of special holidays anyhow. Harry had gotten him the occasional Butterbeer at _The Three Broomsticks_ but he tried his best not to let it happen. Even on the train, he had tried not to let it happen, but Harry was too kind, even then.

Harry didn't understand, no matter how hard Hermione tried to make him.

_Those_ were painful moments, _too._

Maybe he was lucky that Percy had beat him to the resentment. Maybe he was still too young to understand but... no. He was aware. He knew, the entire time. It was like a mantra that played in his head, over and over again. _I'm not rich, I'm not rich, I'm not rich._ It was easier, thinking of everything as _I'm not_ rather than _I am_ because if he were to think _I'm poor_ he would have only become angrier. Maybe then, he would have been the first to snap.

Maybe he was more like Percy than he thought.

Ron laughed into his bottle of Fire Whiskey, suddenly remembering why he never questioned things.

He never liked it. Questions were stupid. Ignorant. Questions made him draw parallels. Questions made him wonder why he couldn't be like this person or that person, or why he could never do things a certain way, or why he was too poor to afford something new, like a wand or some robes or -

But he couldn't, and that was that.

He was painfully aware of everything, he realized. The wind. The chill. The snow. He was aware of the way his fingers seemed to curl around the bottle, freezing as it touched the cold glass. He was aware of the way the chill left a painful, prickly feeling throughout his body, making him want to go back inside and curl up next to the fire. He was aware of the cold, wet snow underneath his body, chilling his legs and feet, and silently, he was cursing himself for coming outside, halfway clothed.

It would be easier if he could just get up, if he could just find his way back into the Burrow, where it was nice and warm, and people laughed and smiled and kept each other safe. Out here, in the snow... there was no safety. It was glaringly cold... a mockery of how he felt, really, because after everything had happened, it seemed like there was nothing left.

Strangely enough, he didn't want there to be.

Clutching at the bottle, he tipped it back, marveling at the way the alcohol burned in his throat, how it burned in the pit of his frozen belly, and hated the way the emptiness made him question.

It was a shame, really.

He could do better without it.

* * *

_**December 29, 3:42 a.m. **_

There were always nightmares, when he thought too hard.

He could feel them, cold and daunting, teasing him, torturing him. He could hear the shattering of glass, the screams of others, their hatred, and through the fog he could hear himself, whispering, chanting, attempting to make things right. But he was continually shifting through molasses, continually being stopped and hindered because he could hear voices - _their voices_ - urging him on. Trying to make him understand. Trying to force him to take that final step. _("Oh, honestly! Why don't you try harder? Why do you keep yourself from moving forward? Sometimes, Ron, I can't help but wonder about you. Don't you want more?"_ And yes, he wanted more, but he couldn't let her know that. He couldn't tell her what it would have meant to have more, to strive for more. _"I just don't want to be like Percy."_ And that would always have to be enough.)

But the voices receeded, too, like he wanted them too. And he would drown again.

Keep it simple.

That was always what he tried to do. Keep it simple.

But then again, it was always easier said than done, because with friends like his - ones who were special in very different ways... Harry, being The Boy-Who-Lived, and Hermione, being the cleverst witch of her age... and he was simply Ron. Poor, useless Ron. There had never been anything special about him, and even in his dreams, he knew it to be true. But then the blackness would surround him, everything would come crashing down, and she would be asking him again why he never strived for more, and once again, he would give her the same answer. But somehow, whenever he did, it wasn't always the same answer, but it always had to do with the same person.

Life would leave him, at times. Or, at least, the will to live. He hated it, almost as much as he resented his father - although he could sometimes tell himself that he didn't necessarily _resent_ his father, as much as remained disappointed in lack for trying - because the more he lived, the more he realized he didn't have a real reason to live. He didn't have a true purpose. And if he did have a purpose, it never made itself noticeable.

Not while he was awake.

But the blackness would surround him and drown him, and he would hear his voice overpowering the voices of his friends, and he would always wonder, when he finally woke, if this was always what he strove for. If this was his purpose in life, if this was what they wanted him to be, what they wanted him to. He could hear his voice, and soon, theirs would fade into the distance, like waves crashing against the shores of his mind only... waves returned, if given enough initiative. He sometimes wondered if _they_ would, too.

_Crucio._

People would scream sometimes, but mostly, it was his own terrible cries, his own terrible inability to be able to handle the cold, cruel reality. Maybe it was reality which made everything more painful. Ron knew his dreams were just that... dreams. But they always helped him remember, too. And, perhaps, that was where he made his mistake.

_Imperio._

Would others lose the will to live, the way he always did in his dreams? He would feel the water, mostly, but afterwards... he would struggle once or twice, as long as he could hear their voices. He could keep afloat. But then he would hear words that weren't his, words that maybe, perhaps, he should have been the one to say, that way, he would know what it felt to taste that burning, stinging, bitter reality on his tongue, and he could do things just to spite everyone. And maybe, that would give him a reason, but half the time, Ron didn't think so. He didn't care much, but he knew he helped. Somehow. He kept people alive, at least, and that should have been reason enough for anyone but... but sometimes, he realized just how like Percy he truly was, and he wanted more, _too._

It was funny how everything he did could be traced back to Percy.

_Avada Kedavra._

Ron knew that he hated him, too.

Something hot and wet twisted around his body, holding him still. He could almost picture the burning black symbol, etched into his skin, bleeding and blistering and hurting oh-so-much, but at the same time, he desired it, almost as much as he desired drowning. It gave him a purpose. It made him want to struggle. _"Fight for others, if not for yourself. And, if that doesn't work, fight for yourself, if not for others, Mr. Weasley."_ But was it really that simple? Was it truly that easy to simply break through the emptiness? To allow it to shatter? Ron knew it wouldn't, and he wouldn't question it either. It was pointless, and it would only make things hurt worse. It would only make him hate himself, too, even though he knew he already did.

_Morsmordre._

He could never leave his mark, not like they would. Not like they did. It was that way on both sides - hell, even Neville left some sort of legacy, or at least, his parents had. And even though it had been a painful one, it was still there, rooted deeply within the pit of his being, and something burned within him. Neville's parents had suffered, yes, but they had still managed to hold on. Tortured to the point of madness. But they were still alive. _That_ was a feat all it's own. So, maybe, Neville could be just as good as them. Maybe, when everything finally came crashing down around them, he could hold on the way his parents had.

Ron wondered if he would have anything to hold onto, and sometimes, he thought about them. But most of the time, when he looked around himself, when he settled at the table for breakfast with his family, and when he looked at his brother's faces, his sisters and his parent's faces... he highly doubted that. But he wouldn't question his worth, because he knew it was down there, right along with his wealth.

Almost non-existent.

Tiredly, he pulled through the vestiges of sleep, waking into the darkness, loving it. He was tired of the light, tired of everything, but despite it all, he still wanted more.

But he stood still, because that was him. He was Ron.

He would never question it.

* * *

_**2:06 p.m.**_

The firewhiskey burned when it went down his throat, and he loved it.

It distracted him from the cold, burning feeling of snow against his skin - skin that he had, once again, forgot to cover. But the alcohol did that to him, no matter what time of day he drank it. In the morning. In the afternoon. At night.

His parents would ask him sometimes, why he enjoyed it so much, but he could only look at them and walk away. He never thought they would be able to understand the burning in his stomach. They wouldn't be able to understand how many hours he would be forced to cry and sweat and bleed after every nightmare he had. Because even through the day, he could hear his voices screaming out those horrible curses, wanting to leave a mark. A mark that he knew he really had no right to leave.

Reality was like a sharp stab in the pit of his stomach, and it made him sick.

Perhaps, if he actually had a chance to bleed, it would leave him to better understand.

The pond beyond him was frozen, and idly, he wondered what it would be like to drown in ice - wondered what it would taste like. But in the end, he pulled away from it, because the Firewhiskey was so much better. Because it burned, and if given the chance, he could crack the bottle and make himself _bleed_ but then... everyone would give him that horrible, strange look, one that he resented as much as he resented himself. As much as he resented his father, and Percy, and Voldemort, for having to make him _choose_ whether or not it was okay to stand in the shades of gray. Or wonder if they even existed, for that matter.

Existence was a painful experience, and he could hear himself whispering those dangerous words, marking his existence.

_Morsmordre._

Ron drank his firewhiskey almost violently.

The frozen pond glittered viciously in front of him, teasing him for his imperfections.

Years of _I'm not rich_ seemed to fade into _I'm not anything_ and somehow, it seemed better. Easier. It made him want more. But he could never have more, because unlike Percy, he was _justlikehisfather_ and he continued to stand still because... because it was his place wasn't it? It was his place to hate himself, and his father, just like Voldemort hated _his_ father, because his father had made him _just like him_ through abandonment and despair.

Ron wondered whether or not he cried after he killed them.

Ron wondered if he found it in himself to feel sorry.

And, quickly, Ron tossed back the rest of his Firewhiskey, disgusted.

The cold was getting to him, so he gripped his bottle in his numb, prickling fingers, and walked back towards the Burrow, towards the warmth and the support. He could probably take another bottle, something to keep that same harsh burning feeling in his stomach. It would be nicer, easier. But they probably wouldn't let him have anymore. Ginny had already hissed at him once he returned from the cellar with it. She had glared, like she always had, and she had gotten their mother. Their mother who was always asking him how he was. "Will you be all right, dear?" And at the same time, he could only look at her, hating her, too, because she had never said it was all right for him to strive for more but... but he shouldn't have to be told, should he?

Harry hadn't. Hermione hadn't.

The cold cut through his defenses, and he shivered violently, attempting to keep the bottle held firmly in his freezing fingers.

They had already started to make their mark. Although, Harry already had his. _The Boy-Who-Lived._ And Hermione - The Cleverest-Witch-Of-Her-Age. Ron snorted, something bitter curling around in his stomach.

What had he been? What had he done? There were many things, yes. There were always many things he could do, he could have done, but he never knew what it was that he _should_ have done. He helped the Light side. But he liked the gray. It seemed better, being almost non-existent. Like Muggles. They were the gray, completely unaware of what was going to happen. How they were going to die. If they did die but... he only helped because that was what people told him to do. But was it truly how he could make his mark?

_Morsmordre._

Ron stepped into the Burrow, feeling oddly empty.

He could feel the sudden rush of heat bombard his body. He could feel his fingers begin to prickle painfully. Pleasantly. It reminded him, forcefully, of the glittering lake of ice. Of drowning. Of darkness.

Voldemort. Percy. His father. Himself.

Standing still, it was what he did. Ron found that he couldn't begin to question it.

He didn't look up when his mother bustled into the kitchen, followed closely by Ginny. He didn't look up when Fred and George came in, both of them chattering quietly. Instead, he grabbed another bottle of firewhiskey from the cellar, leaned carefully against the counter, and took another sip, loving the way it burned inside of him.

Ginny gave him another angry stare.

Ron found he enjoyed it.

"Ron," she hissed, and it took a moment for him to realize she was speaking to him. He looked at her then, because it seemed to be all he could do at the moment, and it helped to distract him. To keep that feeling burning within him. "How many bottles is that?"

His mother turned at that, giving him a concerned look. "Another one, dear? You know I don't approve of drinking. Have some tea, at least."

"No, I'm fine." His voice sounded raspy and horrible even to his own ears. The twins both gave him a strange look, as though they didn't know the person who was currently standing in front of them. Ron was morbidly amused to realize that they were right. He took another gulp of firewhiskey, as though to defy them, and Ginny glared at him, almost violently. So he took another, recieving the same reaction from the twins.

Somewhere along the line, he found it fun to anger them.

His mother just watched, torn between ordering him to stop, and leaving him alone, because, after all, he was an adult. He could take care of himself. Although Ron knew he wasn't doing a very good job. But he found it didn't matter much anyways.

"All right dear," his mother said, turning away. "Just be careful. We wouldn't want to have the twins dragging you up to your bed, tonight."

Ron chuckled darkly, the motion causing his chest to ache.

"I am capable of taking care of myself, Mum." Ron took another drink. "I know my limits."

Ron wondered if Ginny was the only one to pick up the finality in that statement, the utter resentment. Because she was looking at him with wide eyes, as though she had never seen him before. But then, that was the same looks that the twins had given him earlier, and he wondered if they had seen the same thing, too.

At one point, he wondered what Ginny dreamt about. She had been close to Voldemort... he had possessed her, had been filled with his anger and hatred and resentment of all things - especially her, for she had cared for Harry at one point in her life, and he had lived only to destroy him. It was his one desire, to see Harry's blood staining his hands. To hear him scream in pain. To see that dead, glassy look in his eyes. Had Ginny wanted that at one point, too? When Voldemort's memory was filling up her mind, taking over every sane thought that had once resided within her mind? But then, Voldemort had been sane at one point, too. And if Ron was being fair, he could admit that Voldemort was just angry, and he allowed the anger to consume him.

But he hated Voldemort, because he was like him, in a way. Because he was always angry, and always wanting more, but instead of hurting people Ron helped, because it was what he was told to do. The Firewhiskey burned in his throat.

He hated drawing parallels, almost as much as he hated asking questions.

"Harry visited the shop today," George said, giving Ron a meaningful glance. Ginny sat down quickly, watching her brothers, and Ron drank from his bottle, long and hard. It tasted good... the fire was burning wonderfully and -

"He wants to stop by," Fred supplied.

Mrs. Weasley smiled brightly. "It would be lovely to have him here again."

Ron could only stare at his Firewhiskey.

"Hermione, too," George added.

Ginny frowned. "Did Hermione stop by the shop, also?"

"No." They all were looking at Ron carefully, but he couldn't bring himself to look them in the eye because... because Ron knew he would begin to hate them, too, for making him remember. He could tell his mother was looking at him then; he knew she was concerned because - he had choked up, even though he promised himself he would stop caring. But there had been a tremor, and they had all seen it and -

"How do you know? You've been in your room and outside drinking all day."

Ron grinned maliciously at his little sister, and he gripped his bottle tighter, willing it to break within his hands.

"Because she hates that place."

Fred and George exchanged significant glances.

"Ron-"

"I'm fine, Mum, really," Ron said, glaring at his half empty bottle. "I wouldn't mind some tea though."

"Of course, dear."

"Ron." It was Ginny this time, getting out of her chair and moving towards him. But he wouldn't let her touch him. He didn't really want her to. He moved away from her, quickly, moving around to the other side of the table and sat down, swirling the warm liquid around, watching it closely. He could remember it vividly, could remember everything, and he wondered if his brother's remembered it the same way he did. He wondered if his brother's thought about it whenever they mentioned the shop around him. Did they remember the screams, the tears, the yells, the anger? Ron wanted to think that they did, but probably not like him. They hadn't felt it, the way his fingers itched through the rage. The way he wanted to reach out, but knew that she would back away. Knew that she would turn away from his touch even though, at one point, he had been sorry.

He wondered if, perhaps, had she allowed him to touch her, if he could have left his mark that way. He wondered if, despite everything that happened, she had finally forgiven him.

He didn't think she would.

"I wonder who they're coming here to see," Ron mused after a moment of silence, a dark look on his face. "It certainly can't be me."

Ginny's eyes widedned almost imperceptibly.

"_Ron-"_

"When are they supposed to come by?"

Fred look at his brother uneasily. "Tonight."

Mrs. Weasley almost dropped the teacups. "Tonight? Oh, dear. I was hoping I could have time to make something nice for them but I guess they'll just have to settle for something less. Ginny, be a dear and get the biscuits from the pantry."

Ginny nodded, and did so. She returned to the table, watching her brother carefully as he blew on his tea, took a sip, then did so again.

"They don't plan on staying, do they?" Ron asked, glancing towards the bottle of firewhiskey longingly.

"Well Harry said - Harry said Hermione wanted to spend the night." George looked at his twin uneasily. "He said she wanted it to be just like old times."

Ron slammed his cup down, ignoring the way the hot liquid sloshed over the rim, burning his skin. He glared at them in anger, hating the way they continued to do this to them. Hating the way they were forcing him to be civil and kind and -

_"Oh, Ron. I - I didn't mean it, honestly. It's just that - we've been best friends for so long and we haven't really had a chance to be with Harry. And going back out with him again... it'll be just like old times."_

_"Hermione-"_

_"It wouldn't hurt, Ron! I know you want to help! I know you're dedicated, but for once, can't you just take a break!"_

_"Oh that's rich, coming from the person who told me I never worked hard enough."_

His hands were aching. Ron could almost feel his skin blistering, and distantly, he could hear his mother saying something loudly, ordering his brothers around.

Just like old times.

Is that really what she wanted? For everything to be just like old times? Was that her idea of some sort of sick joke? It didn't surprise Ron to find he was far from amused. In fact... he felt like hurting someone. He felt like watching glass shatter against stone; he felt like feeling that ice surrounding his body, filling his lungs, drowning him. He knew it would feel wonderously painful, but he would be thankful for it because it would keep her away from him. It would keep him from living life _just like old times._ Ron laughed, feeling hot angry tears begin to burn his eyes.

He thought she was smarter than that.

But as his mother picked up his hands and dipped them in murtlap essence, he knew he'd been wrong.

* * *

_**7:52 p.m.**_

He could tell when they finally arrived, because the world seemed smaller whenever she was near. The air always got hot, humid, stifling, and Ron found it increasingly hard to breathe. He had chosen to stay in his room for the rest of the day, not wanting to see them when they first arrived. Not wanting to finally see the changes within them. They would arrive together, that was something of which he was sure, and something that his mind screamed at him to question but - but it was one that he could not. Because he knew, without a doubt the reason that she was coming here with Harry, instead of waiting for Harry to show up with _him._ It had been his fault, too. It had been his anger that had taken control of him - it had been the stifling air, the way he couldn't breathe and... she had been so upset when he had told her no. She had been upset when he told her there were other things that he had to do, people he had to protect because they were more _important_. He knew what he said. And she had been shocked by it, but then, as quickly as he had said, she had turned it around and threw it in his face.

_"I understand how you feel, really. But we've had a break for thirteen years. Unlike some people, I want to protect others, not leave them to die."_

_"You aren't Percy, Ron! Stop trying so hard not to be him! I know you want to protect people, but honestly, this is just getting to be too much! Instead of worrying about everyone else, why don't you think about you for once!"_

_"I am thinking about me. But you are obviously only thinking about you."_

_"Yes, but at least I don't base my existence off of the mistakes of others."_

He knew she would remember. But he could understand why she would want to come and visit. Why Harry would want to come and visit. Had she told him what happened? Did he know why exactly they had stopped speaking to one another? Why they haven't spoken to one another in over a year? Ron didn't think so. But then again... it was the first time in about ten months that Harry had finally decided to come by and visit them, and Ron couldn't help but wonder if that had anything to do with Hermione. Knowing Harry, he would have tried to want to make things better but... Hermione knew how to hold grudges, just as much as Percy did. Just as much as Voldemort and him and everyone else who lived in their anger. Who relished it.

Shakily, Ron took a sip of warm Firewhiskey from his half empty bottle and stood, loving the way the heat burned in his stomach.

He hadn't changed since earlier, and he didn't want to. He was still in his jeans, his socks, his thin maroon sweater. He knew his hair was probably messy, but he didn't bother to fix it. He knew his face would look horrible... his nightmares had kept him up all night, tossing and turning, wondering about making his mark. Whether or not he had to make it through death and anger or... or through helping others. It had been almost six months since he had finally stopped helping the Order, despite protests from his family, but he didn't care.

He knew that everyone had been angry, upset. He was a _valuable asset_ as Dumbledore had expressed himself so eloquently. But he told him he couldn't do it any longer. He had let him know that his heart had ached too much, that he found it harder and harder to live _as himself_, but even as lived this life, the one where he seemed to only exist, he knew that this was much worse than before. Because, at least before, the pain was justified. At least he could tell someone that whenever he was around her, he wanted to be able to touch her. Kiss her skin.

Ron could feel the anger bubbling underneath the surface, and he forced himself to stand still. The stairs creaked beneath him, and he could hear the ghoul clanking around in the attic, obviously happy with the new visitors inside the house. Ron wanted, very desperately, to destroy it.

"Oh, Harry dear, I'm so glad to see you again!"

Ron stopped himself from taking another step as he listened carefully to the conversation. The world seemed to be getting smaller and smaller, the air around him was hotter and hotter, and he knew that Hermione was coming closer. She was stepping out of the kitchen and into the living room... if she were to take another step, if she were to turn towards the stairs, she would see him, and knew that he would have to come down and talk to them.

"It's good to see you, too, Mrs. Weasley."

Her hair was still as bushy as he remembered it. But it was still beautiful, gorgeous, and Ron could explicitly remember the way it fell over her naked shoulders. He could remember the way it felt when he curled his fingers into her hair... the way it tickled his face whenever he leaned in to kiss her. It was gorgeous, in it's own unique way, and he loved the way it hung about her face, loved the way it felt on his fingers. Distantly, Ron could feel his body burning, and his fingers itched as he yearned to reach out and touch her.

"So," Ginny started, and Ron could hear the strain in her voice. "How have you two been?"

"Really busy," Hermione answered, and her voice caused Ron to let out a muffled groan. It had been six months since he last heard her voice, and even then, he hadn't really been listening, because all he had been able to feel was this sharp, inexplicable pain whenever he saw her. He had grappled onto that pain, wanting to use it as an excuse and...

"All this Order business, and on top of that, the wedding-"

Ron listened, painfully aware of sharp hiss that came from Ginny.

It made him slightly happier to know that he wasn't the only one who was in pain.

"A wedding?" Fred asked. Or maybe it was George. Ron wasn't entirely sure.

Hermione moved out of his line of sight then, and he was almost certain that she was smiling happily. "Yes. We've been engaged for almost a year now." Ginny hissed again, of that, Ron was sure. "We're getting married in three months."

"Oh, how lovely," Mrs. Weasley murmured, but Ron knew that it was forced. "I'm so very happy for you... the both of you. To finally have found someone you love so _completely_..."

"Yes, well." Hermione giggled nervously. "I'm really excited. Not many people are going to be able to go to it, though. Only Order members, because it can't be leaked, that Harry Potter is going to be getting married. Never know who might get targeted because of it."

Silence fell over the group, and Ron could picture them all nodding. Quietly, Ron sat down, his legs aching with the strain to keep him up right. Perhaps he had drank more than he thought. Or... or maybe... his world felt too small. Too narrow. Too focused.

"Well, dinner should be ready quite soon and-"

"If only members can go to it," Ginny started suddenly, "does that mean that Ron can't attend?"

Ron let in a sharp hiss of breath. Everything seemed to be standing still, and for a second, Ron thought that someone had heard him and would come to fetch him. After all they _were_ his friends, and all he could do was come halfway down the stairs, listening and attempting to watch without being noticed... he didn't think he would be able to take it if he had to see Harry. That would only make everything all the more worse.

"I - well, I'm certain Dumbledore will make an exception..."

Ron resisted the urge to laugh outright.

_"I'm sorry to see you go, my dear boy." A slight pause. "I'll have to erase your memory of how to get into Grimmauld Place, of course." Another contemplative pause. "And I should erase all you knowledge of the Order, however, if you ever need to get into contact with the any members of the Order, you shall need to retain this information in order to protect those around you and yourself." Dumbledore's wand touched Ron's temple gently. "But you can no longer be involved in any Order activities. You can not be privy to information, and you can not appear at any Order gatherings, regardless of whether you want to sit in or merely visit. I'm truly sorry, Mr. Weasley, you were a wonderful asset to our cause."_

"That means no then," Ginny said curtly, and Ron heard the scraping of chairs against the floor. Ron decided he could wait for a few minutes, wait through the silence, because, in the end, he would only appear if he knew that they wanted him to be there. Certainly, they had not made it out to be that way, instead, everything seemed awkward, unsure.

"Ask for me," Ron had wanted to say, but he was painfully aware of the fact that Hermione wouldn't because... she had been through with him for over a _year_ and if her plans to marry Harry were any exception, she had been completely over him six months ago.

"Where's Ron?"

Harry, as usual. His voice was tinged with a hint of concern and... if Ron was not mistaken... regret. But then, that was to be expected. Harry was currently engaged to the woman that he loved. One whom he had loved for quite some time but... that hadn't been why he had left. He knew that. The pain had been unbearable, yes. But... Ron closed his eyes warily, hating his own mind.

He was questioning things again.

That was something that, after everything that had happened, he promised himself he would never do.

Angry at himself, he bit into his lip, tasting the sweetness of his own blood.

Physical pain was always better than emotional pain.

"He's been sitting on the stairs for the last ten minutes," one of the twins said, a hint of a laugh in their voice. Ron rubbed the back of his neck, exhausted, and got to his feet, wondering whether or not he should really come down. But then he heard their snickers, and he knew that _someone_ was going to come for him, and he knew he would just about lose it if it had to be Hermione. Merlin, he didn't think he would be smart enough to _do_ anything about it, because it had been so long since he had seen her lovely face...

"Standing," Ron said, as he walked into the kitchen. "I've been_ standing_ on the stairs for the last ten minutes."

The twins grinned wildly, and Ron sat down carefully in his chair.

"Harry. Hermione." They both watched him carefully. "Congratulations."

Hermione smiled hesitantly, but Ron couldn't bring himself to look at her. So he looked at Harry. He realized his friend hadn't changed, not that much. His hair was still messy, his eyes were still wonderfully green, and he still looked a bit thin - but then again, Harry was always a bit thin. His glasses still enhanced his eyes in that earth shattering way... they drew attention to that sharp, intense green that was just... Harry. Somehow, Ron wasn't surprised.

"Thank you," Harry said simply, trying to smile.

"It means a lot," Hermione started quietly, "knowing we have your blessing."

Ron turned a sharp gaze towards her.

It was almost painful to look at her, as though someone had just hit him with an extremely powerful _Crucio._ His fingers curled around the edge of the table, and Hermione's eyes were widening in surprise. He knew his anger was very apparent on his features.

Ron hated the way he felt so much.

"Ron," Ginny whispered, "maybe you should go upstairs."

Ron stood quickly, moving to leave, but Hermione was on her feet, and his world became entirely too focused, only on her.

"_Ron,_ it would mean so much to us - to _me_ if you-"

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Ron-"

"Just leave me alone, Harry," Ron grumbled, moving towards the cellar. Hesitantly, Harry reached out to grab his arm, but Ron jerked away, turning around to glare at him. "I suppose I'm not the only one reaching all new levels of stupidity then, am I?"

Harry stared at him, his mouth hanging open slightly, but Ron didn't care. It was a childish jibe, yes. But he had been nothing but childish, trapped on a path that continually twisted and turned and led him around in circles. He was tired of being asked why he was standing still. His path led no where... it was as if it were trying to let him know. Trying to alert him to what is. Pointing him somewhere only...

_"Why don't you ever try to strive for more?"_

_Percy. Voldemort. Harry. Me. "I don't want to be like Percy." We're really are the same, aren't we?_

_"Ron, you aren't... you aren't like Percy. Why do his mistakes matter so much to you?"_

_"Because... because he-" I'm like him. "-he's my brother, Hermione."_

He grabbed a bottle of Firewhiskey, knowing he was going to have a horrible headache the next day. But he really didn't care. He stormed out of the cellar and through the kitchen door, ignoring the twin glares that his brother's sent him.

He really didn't care. He wasn't going to continue to torture himself by being in their presence. It only intensified his dreams and made everything hurt all the more.

Angrily, he remembered why he stopped asking questions.

* * *

_**8:34 p.m.**_

The snow was nice and cold and helped him to remember exactly _why_ he left the Order in the first place. It hadn't been one of his horrible mistakes... no, instead - instead it had been like a godsend, because whenever he was in the same room as her, his heart used to ache, and he could remember, wanting to reach out and touch her. Wanting to get closer to her so he could press his body against hers, press soft kisses to her neck, smell her sweet wondrous scent. He had been tempted... extremely tempted, during those times but - but then he would manage to find her by herself, crying, and he couldn't bring himself to be near her once again.

Because he had been the one to make her cry, he had been the one to give her pain, and he didn't know how to make it better.

Perhaps it was his fault that he allowed things to get like this. But... but if Hermione truly loved him, if she truly wanted to be with him, she could have taken the initiative, too. He had been a coward, yes, but - Hermione was one bravest women he knew, and if she had only _came_ to him, perhaps they might still be able to love each other again. They might be able to touch each other again. He might be able to curl her up in his arms, and taste her and feel her and bury himself inside of her, the way he used to.

Ron was disgusted to realize he missed her more than he thought he did.

His bottle was warm in his hands, and as he sat near the edge of the lake, he found that he didn't want to throw himself into it's icy depths. He didn't want to feel the chunks of ice tearing through his throat as he swallowed them, waiting for it to drown him. His eyes burned dangerously, and he wondered if he were crying. He didn't think he would be able to live with himself if he were, so instead, he drank some more alcohol, and felt something warm slide down his already freezing cheeks.

"Damn," he muttered, loving the way the snow chilled his body.

Ron wondered what they were doing now, if Harry was mad at him. He hadn't really meant to get angry with them; he hadn't meant to bring up past events but... it was still boiling inside of him, still causing his fingers to itch painfully, reminding him of all the anger he had wanted to expel, but wouldn't, because he had loved her too much to want to hurt her, although he knew he didn't mind hurting Harry. Harry would fight back. Maybe... Harry might even understand. He knew what it was like to lose someone he loved dearly, what it was like to not be able to get that person back - to know that no matter what he did, he would be forever out of his reach. Something cold gripped his heart violently, and he dropped the alcohol in the snow, trying his best to ignore the soft, fuzzy scarf that was currently being twined around his neck.

He didn't need to look to know that it was her. He could smell her perfume - it was the same that she had worn when she had been with him - and then she was sitting down next to him, staring out over the icy lake as though she could see exactly what he saw. The silence was almost deafening, but he leaned into it, loving it, because it didn't remind him of his dreams, which were filled of words and memories and _death._

_Morsmordre._

He wondered what that word would sound like coming from her lips, and suddenly, he was painfully aware that he was watching her. And her eyes were on him, too, dark and intense, as though attempting to gauge what was running through his mind. He could see the traces of tears on her cheeks, ones that he was the cause of - _once again _- and Ron wondered if that was the purpose of his life. To leave those he loved in pain. To make those he loved hate him. Ron thought that Harry hated him, but he wasn't entirely sure. He knew Hermione did, because the last time he had made her cry, she hadn't come to him. The only thing that could have possibly made her _want_ to come, was because she was angry enough to want to hurt him, and it was only her temper that kept confrontations going.

But then again, it had been a year, and Ron realized he wasn't completely sure about her anymore.

Absently, he wiped the tears from her face, loving the way her skin still felt so completely soft.

"_Ron,_" Hermione said, her voice oddly strained. "_Don't_."

He pulled away, turning his attention back towards the black sky, towards the nothingness, and waited for her to talk. She fiddled nervously with her scarf, wrapping it tighter around her neck, before shoving her chilled hands into her pockets.

"Ron."

"Hermione."

His voice was stiff, formal. He knew she could sense it by the way she flinched, and the pain was there, the sadness, and he knew that she had harbored that for a year, because if she were over it, if she were able to accept it, she would... she would feel pity, and compassion. She would have already apologized.

"It was a mistake, wasn't it?"

Ron ignored her question.

"Us, together. It had been nice at first but... but I think it was a mistake. Do you think it was?"

Ron continued to ignore her, feeling oddly empty.

"Oh, Ron, if I could just go back and change it, I would. It was so hard being with you, you know, especially since you practically devoted all your time to the Order. I barely saw you and even then... oh Ron, I - I'm really happy with -"

"Go away, Hermione," Ron said miserably. "If all you came out here to tell me was that everything was a mistake... I don't want to hear it. Go back inside with Harry."

Hermione turned away from him, and started picking at a loose thread.

"I always thought you would come speak to me," she whispered quietly. "After... I tried my hardest to talk to you. I knew that I would wait for you but... you never came. I didn't want to believe that it was over, you know. I wanted so badly to be with you but..."

"I did come to you," Ron cut in, picking up his bottle of Firewhiskey. "I _always_ came, but you were always crying. I didn't want to hurt you even more by forcing my presence on you."

"Oh, Ron!" Hermione wailed, fresh tears streaming down her face. "You're so stupid!"

Ron blinked, surprised at her sudden burst of emotion. "Yes, well, for someone who's considered The Cleverest-Witch-Of-Her-Age, you certainly weren't intelligent enough to realize that maybe I needed you to come to me, too."

Hermione watched him, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed in that way he found so cute and oddly irritating at the same time. "It _was_ a mistake."

Ron snorted. "You obviously learned so much from it."

"_Ron!_"

"Go away, Hermione."

"No."

"Yes."

"_No._"

"I'm serious, Hermione. You'd be making a mistake if you didn't leave."

She merely glared at him, and shook her head stubbornly. "I'm _not_ leaving, Ron. Not until we talk about this."

Ron cast her an irritated glance. "I don't _want_ to talk about this."

"Then what do you want to do, Ron?"

She knew it was a mistake, as soon as his fingers were gripping the back of her neck. She knew it was a mistake, as soon his other hand gripped her shoulder, pulling her closer. She knew it was a mistake, because his hands were freezing and cold and caused her skin to burn lips were just as cold, but she could remember them, vividly, almost as much as he remembered the way her skin felt under his fingers and the way she yielded to him, if he tugged her hair just so. Her mouth was warm and tasted like tea, and it was wonderfully pleasant. He could remember how she felt, pressed against him, but being able to touch her and feel her and kiss her like this again... his hand drifted down to grip her long fingers dug viciously into her hip, causing her to arch awkwardly against him.

He moved away, pressing hot furious kisses against her jaw, tugging her scarf away quickly. A fog had settled over his mind, and couldn't quite recall why he had wanted her to go away in the first place. It wasn't because he had loved her, or because he knew he would regret doing this but... but there had been something. But, Merlin, she was so deliciously soft, and her skin was so warm, and she whimpered so beautifully, he didn't exactly _care_ whether or not there was a _reason_ for him to regret taking her and touching her the way he wanted to.

Hermione was trying to struggle back into reality. He was intoxicating... he tasted of alcohol, hot and burning, and it had taken all of her will not melt underneath him, despite the fact that she wanted to. He was drunk... she knew that well enough, just by the way he was acting. Just by the way his hands slipped under her shirt, his hands digging into her flesh, attempting to touch all of her. She had wanted to pull away, knew that she should, but then he had pulled her scarf away and started doing those delicious things to her neck-

Harry was going to kill her.

"Ron," she whimpered, attempting to push him away. "Ron, _please._"

He paused for a moment, then pulled away completely, staring moodily out over the ice lake. She shivered for a moment, yearning for his warm body as a protection from the cold but - Hermione let out a shaky breath, her hands shaking horribly.

"Ron," she started again, wrapping her scarf around her neck again. "I - Harry -"

"Do you love him?"

Hermione blinked, shocked by the sudden unexpected question, before she nodded slowly, watching him carefully. "Yes. I do. I love him."

"Good." Ron nodded, and he continued to stare at the darkness that hovered over the ice lake. "Are you in love with him?"

Hermione frowned. "Ron, I just told you-"

"No," he said quickly. "You told me you love him. I love him, too. He's like family but... are you in love with him Hermione? Do - do you love him the way that..." he trailed off, and his brow furrowed in concentration, "...the way that Ginny loves him?"

It was a subtle plea, one he was hoping that she wouldn't pick up, but she was Hermione, and she understood things rather quickly. Too quickly, for his tastes.

"Ron, Harry left her. You know that, as well as I do."

"Yeah. I don't like seeing her so upset."

"She would say the same for you... although it's easier to see you upset since you have the tendency to be upset all the time." Hermione laughed then, and slowly, she draped his arm around her shoulders and snuggled close to him, loving his warmth. "Ginny will find who she wants to be with, you know. Who can make her happy. But I don't think Harry is that person. We're in love. I don't think that's going to change, Ron."

His body tensed at her last words, but her fingers were intertwining with his, and slowly, he relaxed.

This was what he remembered. This was his comfort zone.

"I was in love with you, too, Ron." Hermione flicked her hair out of her face, leaning into his side. "Even after so long I still feel it. And it hurts, because I want to only love Harry but... please forgive me."

"Does he make you happy?"

"Yes," Hermione whispered, feeling tears welling up in her eyes again. "But you should know this, Ron. We've been friends for almost twelve years. Harry would never hurt you."

Ron shifted away almost violently. "Hermione, you can't honestly believe -"

"Just what are you trying to say, Ron? That he'll do what you did? That he'll deliberately push me away because of someone else's mistakes? Harry's not like that, Ron! And you should know better! You should know-"

His mouth suddenly covered hers again, and something inside of him threatened to break. He pulled away, quickly, because he knew that if he kissed her for just a moment more, he wouldn't be able to stop, and he would want more and more of her and... Hermione wouldn't want to hurt Harry, but she didn't seem to mind hurting him. Something bitter twisted inside of him, and his hands curled into fists. He hated the way she was making him feel - he wanted to hate her, so desperately, but all he could do was want her and it made him angry. But - but she was his Hermione, and somehow, he found that thought oddly comforting.

"I know that you want to believe that he'll live," Ron said quietly, "I want to believe to. I hope he lives otherwise... you and Ginny... you'll both be... if he even thinks of hurting my sister anymore, I'll kill him."

Hermione's eyes widened slowly.

"I never wanted to be like Percy," Ron said slowly, watching as tears spilled from Hermione's eyes, "because if I was like Percy then that would mean that I was like Voldemort."

Hermione exhaled sharply, glaring at Ron dangerously. "Ron, you can't honestly think..."

"He hated his father, Hermione. He hated him for being a Muggle... for abandoning him and never giving him more than what he had. Percy felt the exact same way about our father. He felt he never gave him enough and... and, Merlin, Hermione. When I was growing up, I felt the same _way_."

Tears spilled prettily down Hermione's cheeks.

"I hated my father for being poor. I hated him for forcing me to deal with all that ridicule and torment at school. I hated the way I had to rely on you or Harry to... to buy me something as simple as Butterbeer." Ron folded his arms across his chest, not stopping to think whether or not he should be telling her this. "But I hated myself even more for hating it. Does that make sense, Hermione?"

"Yes." Hermione scrubbed her face roughly. "Oh, Ron. Why... why didn't you just _tell_ me? Why didn't you say something to Harry? We're your friends. We could have -"

"Could have what, Hermione? What would you have done? Support me? Make sure I remained happy and cheerful and acted like there wasn't a care in the world?"

"Ron, that's not what I meant, and you know it."

"You know, Hermione. I'm tired of asking questions. No matter how many questions I ask, the answer never changes."

Hermione watched him, confused.

"We should go inside," Ron said suddenly. "It's freezing."

* * *

_**9:15 p.m.**_

Hermione had tried her hardest to talk to him, but Ron was doing a stellar job of ignoring her. He even managed to ignore the concerned looks that his family members sent his way... but he couldn't ignore the contemplative look that Harry had given him, nor the frown that accompanied it. He had almost started panicking, he could feel his heart rate pick up and his breathing shallow and... and Hermione had brushed by him, completely ignoring him the way that he ignored her, and poured herself a cup of tea, wanting to return the heat to her body.

Ron picked up a biscuit, ignoring the rest of the food that was sitting on the table. He found he wasn't exactly hungry anyhow. Besides, Hermione's eyes were still red from crying, and Harry must known it had been from him. Her eyes had been perfectly lovely and clear when she had first sat outside with him but now... the skin around her eyes were rather puffy as well, and if she were to take her scarf of... Ron's eyes widened in apprehension, and he felt terribly guilty.

Harry.

He knew he was going to regret this because of Harry. He would have to tell him, despite his desire to remain silent. He would have to let him know that he had kissed Hermione, that he touched and tasted and _enjoyed_ being with her again, despite the fact that he wasn't _allowed_ to touch her anymore. Not the way he wanted to. And Harry was going to hate him, but... Ron felt something dig deep into his belly, reminding him of the person Harry would hate the most. Not him, no, but probably her. Because she knew what she was getting into as soon as she stepped out that door. She knew how his emotions raged wildly around her, which was why she had stayed away for a year.

_Harry._

It clawed and tugged at him, and he felt sick to his stomach.

_Harry._

He tried his hardest to open his mouth, to speak to him, but once again, just like with Hermione, he could hear himself remaining completely silent, just watching. Just seeing.

_Just like last time._

Hermione sat down next to Harry, and Ron knew that she was watching him carefully, wanting him to go on. But he couldn't. All he knew what to do was to remain silent. It kept things simpler that way. Darker. Dumbledore had told him to, had trusted him to.

And maybe that was his reason.

He was good at keeping secrets, especially his own.

Nibbling on the biscuit, Ron watched distractedly, as Harry leaned towards Hermione, whispering something to her calmly. She nodded, like she always did, and Ron found the gesture reassuring.

Harry pulled away and glanced towards Ron.

"Hermione - er - why do you smell like alcohol?"

Hermione looked slightly alarmed.

"I gave her some of my Firewhiskey... just a sip!" Ron added at his mother's angry glare. "Nothing to give her a massive hangover, or make her drunk. Just enough to make the blood burn."

"Well Ron, for you, that's seven bottles."

Ron grinned. "You make it sound like I'm an alcoholic, Ginny."

Ginny sighed heavily, turning away. "You could be, if you keep up like you are."

Ron watched her closely, his eyes narrowing slightly. Why did she feel it necessary to throw his business around? Why did she find it necessary to expose the fact that he loved feeling that burning in his stomach, because it reminded him... what had it been for originally? Even after everything that had happened, even after he felt that burning on his skin, making him want to scream out in pain... he didn't remember anymore.

There was a reason. There had to be. He knew it had something to do with his dreams, with hearing the curses... all of the Unforgivables... the hiss of a curse that marked the death of others.

Ron's vision blurred, it was almost as though a fog had settled over his mind and... _There was a reason why._

He sat down hard, and his legs ached painfully. His head was beginning to pound, his fingers to tremble and - had it really gotten that bad? Had he really allowed himself to be washed away in the feeling that burned and twisted inside of him, helping him to forget, but always leaving him to remember? There was a reason why he hated asking questions. Was this it? Because whenever he questioned things, whenever he doubted his existence, his _reasons_, he felt like he was drowning. He could almost taste the water sloshing into his mouth, causing his chest to ache and his lungs to burn because -

_"Why don't you strive for something more?"_

_"I don't want to be like Percy."_

He didn't know anything anymore.

"Ron?"

Hermione's voice brought him back through the haze, and rubbed his temples viciously, attempting to soothe away the pain.

"I'm fine."

"You should eat something. You're rather pale."

Ron resisted the urge to smile.

"He's lost a lot of weight, also, Hermione dear." Mrs. Weasley busied herself with fixing Ron a plate of food. "I always wondered what was wrong with but... oh, dear. He tells me that he can take care of himself."

Harry snorted. "He's doing such a good job at it, too."

"Shut up, Harry." Ron wanted to glare at him, but that only made his head hurt all the more.

Harry grinned. "So what's the matter?"

"Nothing. My head just hurts. Look, Harry -"

"It's fine, Ron."

Ron lifted his head slowly. "Sorry, mate. I was being an idiot."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "But you've always been an idiot."

Ron rolled his eyes, the buried his face in his hands at the motion.

"I'm so glad to have friends like you," Ron murmured. "Never caring just how much you hurt my pride."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a slightly alarmed look at the procclamation, but they seemed to be the only ones who realized that it hadn't been a joke. Ron shifted once again, ignoring the way his mother nudged him with her hands as she set his plate of food down beside him. Silence seemed to descend over the little gathering of friends, everyone watching as Ron remained hidden in his make-shift cocoon, waiting for him to finally break the ice once again.

But his head was swimming with pain, and, for the first time in a long time, he felt utterly and completely nauseous. He could feel his stomach begin to twist in on itself, could feel his chest hitch, and for a second he could taste the bile burning the back of his throat painfully.

"Bloody hell," Ron whispered, covering his mouth with his hands. "I think I'm gonna puke."

Suddenly, Ron pushed his chair away from the table and dropped his head between his knees, attempting to take deep resounding breaths.

When was the last time he had gotten sick like this? He could taste a trickle of alcohol dancing on his tongue, and before he had a chance to comtemplate what was happening, a bitter burning taste filled his mouth, and he could hear himself retching... he could hear his friends - Harry and Hermoine - saying something, and he could feel them kneeling down besides him. Almost at once, their hands were on his back, soothing him, Hermione more vigorously than Harry, but the same warmth spread through him as they attempted to comfort him. His insides felt as though they were twisting within him, and Ron continued to retch, his eyes stinging with unwanted tears.

"Shhh, you'll be all right." Hermione, no doubt. "Oh _Harry_ I shouldn't have let him drink that last bottle. I should have taken it away from him. I -"

"_Hermione._"

Tears leaked down Ron's face and his body jerked at the sound of Harry's voice. It was strange, hearing that calming, affectionate tone coming from Harry... the last person he had heard Harry speak to like that had been Ginny and...

"Oh Merlin," Ron muttered, as soon as his vomiting had let up. "My _head._"

Hermione and Harry helped Ron to his feet, shifting him out of the way.

Strangely enough, Mrs. Weasley was oddly quiet.

"_Scourgify_," Ginny murmured, flicking her wand, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Ron," Hermione said after a moment of silence, shifting Ron so that he was leaning heavily on Harry. "You do know that was nothing but alcohol, right?"

Ron's face twisted into something completely unpleasant.

"I'm gonna get sick again," Ron barely managed to mumble, before he threw up again, all over Harry.

* * *

_**9:46 p.m.**_

Harry had been oddly pleasant after the entire fiasco, pretending as if it was an everyday occurrence, getting thrown up on. His brothers had joked with him accordingly, something that he had never been able to do since... since he left the Order, and the more he talked, the easier it became, slipping back into his old lifestyle. But the more and more he seemed to talk, the more focused his world became.

There was a sharp pain somewhere in vicinity of his chest, and no matter what he did, he couldn't seem to shake the feeling that something... something wasn't what it was supposed to be. Because even after everything that had happened, he hadn't felt this kind of camaraderie since... since before he and Hermione had left one another. It had left a sick, disgusting feeling in the pit of his stomach and an even more agonizing taste on his tongue. Ron had wanted to believe that he wasn't feeling so horrible... that he wasn't pretending like everything was what it used to be but... Hermione had found it necessary to fuss over him... the same way that she used to fuss over him _before_ and -

He knew that Harry noticed the affection touches. Hell, he knew that _everyone_ noticed them, despite the fact that they were only light brushes against her hands, her hair, her arms... but no one said a word. Every time he touched her though, he could feel something sparking within him, something soft and gentle and warm that rivaled the sick, torturous feeling within him. Something that made him want to smile and laugh and cry and _yell_ but... his fingers skimmed against her hand and he remembered why it didn't matter.

Hermione gave him a calculating look, her lips pursed and his eyes narrowed, and all Ron managed to do was smile drunkenly at her. He heard her sigh... he heard them all sigh, and for a moment, he wanted to laugh at his own wondrous performance, but then that sick feeling rose within him again, and he turned his attention to Ginny. She was watching him carefully, almost as carefully as Harry was, and it made him want to smirk. The blood in his veins burned; his body tingled pleasantly, and for a second, Ron wanted to laugh. Maybe, just maybe, he should have told Harry that he was kissing his fiancee. Maybe he should have told Harry that he could still make her want and want and _want_ and - Ron couldn't help but wonder how Harry made her yield to him. Couldn't help but wonder if his touches made her body arch in that delightful way, pressing deliciously into him.

Ron's face twisted into a disgusted expression, and he completely ignored the slightly angered look that Ginny sent his way.

"-best friend, not the Order."

Ron blinked, and turned to Harry, and gave him an extremely curious look.

Harry grinned.

"Huh?"

"Thought that would get your attention." Ron gave Harry a furious look. Harry looked taken aback for a second, but then he gave an imperceptible nod of understanding.

"_Ron_," Ginny hissed, glaring at him dangerously. "Knock. It. _OFF!_"

"You know, Gin," Ron continued quietly. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were being -"

"Ronald Weasley!"

Ron glared at his mother, jerking his head angrily. "Yes, mum?"

"Your behavior is absolutely disgusting! You're finally seeing your friends after six months of absolutely no contact with anyone other than your family, and all you can do is act like some filthy street bum! You have two of the most loyal friends in the world -" Ron snorted in disbelief, and almost at once, Mrs. Weasley fell quiet, watching her son silently.

A moment of silence passed between everyone, and suddenly, the air was hot and humid, almost stifling. Ron was aware of the fact that everyone was breathing heavily, watching him and his mother with wide eyes, attempting to understand the silent communication between them. Attempting to understand what it was that was being passed back and forth between mother and youngest son... attempting to understand exactly _why_ they seemed to hate each other and yet... understand each other so completely.

Suddenly, the twins jumped to their feet and made a beeline for the staircases, looking extremely uncomfortable. Ginny watched her brother carefully, watched as he seemed to be so completely _immature_ and yet... she could almost feel the darkness radiating off of him, wanting to scream out in pain. It wasn't strange, seeing Mrs. Weasley suddenly surrendering under her brother's scrutiny, and yet, it was so unlike her mother... Ginny sighed and tossed her hair over her shoulders, eying her three friends carefully. Harry looked as though he had swallowed something extremely sour; his face was pinched and his brow furrowed... he looked as though he wanted to be angry at Ron's obvious display of skepticism but couldn't help but be confused and sad as well. Ginny spent a lot of her time examining Harry - she wanted to believe that she knew his moods almost as Ron knew Hermione's and...

_Hermione._ Yes, of course. This was all about _Hermione._ The young brunette looked as though she wanted to throttle Ron, but she, too, could only find herself able to be upset. Could only find herself wanting to cry. Ginny couldn't help but wonder whether or not Ron thought the same thing about her as she did. _Pathetic. Hermione was acting absolutely pathetic._

Who was she trying to kid anyways? It's not like Ron would have wanted to bless the both of them, especially since Ron was still obviously in love but... Ginny snorted, hating the way her brother was acting. It was almost as if he hadn't grown up at all. It was almost as though he were standing still, unable to move forward, focusing more on the past than he was the future. And if Hermione was pathetic... she should have known that Ron wasn't able to move on from the past. It embittered him. It caused him to hold so many painful memories... memories of being shunned, of being stuck on a level from which he could not rise.

_Ron felt pathetic._

So he acted it.

And, if Ginny didn't know any better, Ron had stopped questioning his worth a long time ago.

Ginny sighed, and Harry shot her a questioning look.

"Ron," Ginny started, giving him a fierce glare. "Stop being a prat."

Ron glowered furiously at her. "Shove off, Ginny."

"Stupid, filthy hypocrite."

"I said shove _off._"

Ginny jumped out of her seat, her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"You're not my dad."

"Well, thank Merlin for that!" Ron sneered nastily, and Ginny could almost see her mother shaking, tears streaming down her face. "I wouldn't want to be a poor worthless waste of flesh with poor worthless children anyways!"

"Ron!" Hermione gasped. Ron turned and glared at her.

"Oh shut up, Hermione. It's not as though you didn't know. After all, you were always there when I bloody needed you the most, right?" The venom in his voice was apparent, the anger and bitterness even more so. Harry's eyes widened dramatically, and his arm instinctively wrapped around Hermione's shoulders, pulling her closer to him. Ron could see her trembling, could see her fighting back tears by summoning up righteous anger... Ron couldn't help but love it. Getting a rise out of Hermione... it was almost like old times. It was almost like everything was all right again.

But then, Harry would never get between his two friends the way he was now and - reality had a bitter, sorrowful taste, one that made Ron crave the fire in his belly, a fire that would replace the vicious ache in his heart. One that would make Ron dive back down into the deep depression that had kept him company for so long.

"That's enough, Ron." Harry gave him a furious look. "It's not Hermione's fault that-"

Ron suddenly broke out into a half hysterical laughter, one that caused all four occupants of the room to watch him with wide, disbelieving eyes. Tears began to stream down Ron's face, making him even more furious with himself at the fact that he couldn't remain strong enough, that he allowed his friends to see his state of weakness. He wanted to think that maybe, he could have prevented this. He should have stayed in his room. He shouldn't have allowed everything to get to him. He should have... he should have went to her, a year ago. Maybe, if he had enough courage, he wouldn't feel so empty... so hollow. Maybe she could have protected him from... from _everything_ but -

Ron sat down heavily in his chair, his maniacal laughter dying almost immediately. His throat felt raw, his eyes burned, and his soul felt as though it had almost been ripped in two. He could feel his heart thrumming heavily against his ribcage, could feel the need to run away currently building within him, and for a second, he almost got to his feet. He almost stood to storm out of the room, but before he had a chance, his mother was next to him, shoving chocolate in his hands, before moving around the kitchen, tossing chocolate and milk into a pot, mixing it together quickly.

Ron nibbled on the chocolate, a strange warmth flooding through his body, stretching through his legs, all the way to his toes. Almost greedily, Ron shoved the rest of the chocolate in his mouth, loving the way it's warmth spread through his body. It was pleasant, it was comfortable, and it calmed him, almost immediately. Sighing, he leaned back into his chair, rubbing his temples gingerly.

"Ron?" Hermione asked tentatively. Ron turned his head, feeling oddly lethargic and stared at her carefully. For a second, it was almost as though he had never seen her in his life. He gave her a calculating look, taking in every unique feature about her, from her bushy hair, to her expressive brown eyes, to the way her lips were pressed together tightly, as though she were trying to keep something extremely repulsive from slipping past her lips... Ron's eyes snapped immediately back to hers, and they widened. He licked his lips almost apprehensively and shifted forward in his seat, looking at her as though she were a figment of her imagination.

"Her-Hermione?" His voice sounded raw, cracked, and Hermione nodded at him, watching him carefully. "What - what are you doing here?"

Behind him, Ginny sucked in a harsh breath, before swiveling around to face her mother, who continued mixing the chocolate and the milk together.

"I - we - you see..." Hermione trailed off, exchanging a worried glance with Harry before the both of them moved forward. Hermione sat down next to him, and Harry stood, watching the exchange with a confused look on his face. "Ron, what were you doing three minutes ago?"

Ron's eyes scrunched closed, as though it was hard to think, and he turned back towards her, frowning slightly. "Feeding Pig. Why?"

"Mum-"

"Ginny, go get Fred and George," Mrs. Weasley said dismissively, sending Ginny from the room. She gave her mother a scandalized look, before standing stiffly and storming out the room. Harry shot her a sympathetic look, one that Ginny returned with a tight smile before she disappeared. "Have some hot chocolate Ronnie-kins."

Ron gave his mother a disgusted look, but took the hot mug thankfully. "Mum, I'm not four. You can call me by my name."

Hermione pursed her lips together tightly, watching as Ron sipped the thick hot chocolate.

"How have you been, Ron?" Ron took another sip of his hot chocolate, before turned towards Harry, shrugging nonchalantly. "I've been helping Fred and George with the shop a bit, you know, still trying to figure out what it is I want to do. I've been thinking about going to the Ministry and getting a job there. Might end up working under Dad or something -" Ron paused, a strange wave of pain racking his body, and almost at once, Mrs. Weasley pressed the cup of hot chocolate to his lips, and Ron took a big gulp, forcing the thick mess down his throat. "_Mum_," Ron started, irritated.

Mrs. Weasley gave him a severe look, and Ron immediately took another sip, smacking his lips together at the thick chocolaty mess.

"Ron," Hermione started, tugging the cup from his hands, "If you don't mind."

Ron shook his head.

Hermione brought the cup to her lips, her tongue darting out to taste the chocolate. Almost at once, she could feel a strange warmth swimming through her body, stretching through her limbs, and she thrust the cup back into Ron's hands, and pulled out her wand.

"Finite Incantantum," she whispered, and the warmth immediately disappeared. She gave Mrs. Weasley a strained look, turning towards Ron who continued to gulp down the chocolate mess that his mother made for him, loving the wonderful warmth coursing throughout his body. The pain in his head had quickly disappeared, and he gulped down the rest, sighing in content.

"Thanks Mum," he murmured, leaning back comfortably in his chair. "So why are you here?"

"We just wanted to visit you is all," Harry said, shifting back and forth uncomfortably. "You know, see our best mate."

Ron nodded absently, his eyes fluttering opened and closed.

"Hermione," Ron said, entwining his fingers with hers. "I got that book for you, you know. The one about Charms and Runes and that famous theory and -"

Hermione gave Harry a startled look.

"Ron," she started carefully. "You gave-"

"Fred, George," Mrs. Weasley interrupted as the twins walked into the kitchen. "Help your brother to his room."

"_Mum_," Ron whined, causing everyone to watch him carefully. "Mm no' a baby."

"Right, Mum," George said tightly, lifting his brother to his feet. "Come on, Ikkle Ronniekins."

"Mum says it's beddie bye for you."

Ron murmured something obscene to the twins, ignoring the extremely calculating looks that his friends were giving his mother. They heard Ron clambering up the stairs noisily, while Fred and George bantered back and forth, the strain apparent in their voices.

"Mrs. Weasley," Harry began, only to be cut off by Hermione.

"That was a memory potion," Hermione said accusingly. "_And _a Sleeping Draught."

Mrs. Weasley sighed, sitting down heavily into a chair. She fixed her attention on a soft yellow tea cosy, fingering it gently as the two young wizards stood before her, Hermione's angry accusations hanging in the air. Time felt as though it stretched out slowly between them, and for a moment, Harry was reminded of a time before, when things were strained, yet comfortable and... _Dumbledore._ In that instant, Mrs. Weasley reminded him of Dumbledore. Stressed, to the point of exhaustion. To a point where she looked extremely tired and old, as though she were living passed her days. Passed a time where she was supposed to live. And, for a second, Harry felt _guilty._ He felt guilty because he knew that the knowledge that she as currently keeping secret within her mind was dark and haunted and -

Oh, Merlin. What was wrong with Ron?

"Mrs. Weasley," Harry said slowly, sitting down across from her. "Is Ron-"

"It shouldn't even be possible, mixing the two together. It's lethal!"

Harry sighed and turned towards Hermione. "Hermione-"

"Not to mention the dosage you put into it - a year and a half? A year _and a half!_ I can't believe you Mrs. Weasley! This is your son! Not only did you run the risk of killing him, but you erased a year and a half of his memories and-"

"The chocolate negates the effects of the potions when they are combined," Mrs. Weasley said quietly. "It's almost as though he's drinking them seperately... Ron will be fine."

"Mrs. Weas_ley_-"

"_Hermione!_" Harry said sharply, giving her a furious look. "Shut up already!"

Hermione pressed her lips together furiously, her eyes narrowing angrily.

"Mrs. Weasley," Harry said quietly. "What's wrong with Ron?"

Mrs. Weasley's head jerked imperceptibly, and she stared at the both of them carefully. He could tell that she was debating whether or not to tell them, debating whether or not it was okay for the two of them to know what it was that made her use a potion against her own son. Especially without telling him. Harry couldn't help but wonder whether or not Ron was aware of the fact that his mother had erased his memory. It was possible, but then again... Mrs. Weasley had lied. She had allowed him to assume that it was harmless chocolate. Had allowed him to believe that it was just a wonderful, thick, messy cup of hot chocolate. He could understand her wanting to protect her son, especially after the fit that he had but...

But that was simply going too _far_. It was simply sneaky, abusing that trust that Ron held in his mother. It was horrific, knowing that someone who Ron was supposed to love and _care_ about would do something like that. It was deceitful. Harry didn't think that Ron's mother would do it on purpose but there just had to be a reason that she was keeping it from him. Just as there was a reason for Dumbledore to keep certain information about _him_ secret... Harry sighed and gave Mrs. Weasley a blank look, hoping upon hope that she would give him the information that he wanted. The silence seemed to stretch into eternity, and Harry was becoming more and more impatient, as was Hermione. He could tell by the way she continued to shift from foot to foot that she wanted nothing more than give Mrs. Weasley a good tongue lashing, however... Harry winced. As soon as Mrs. Weasley gave them the reason _why_ she had practically drugged their best friend, he was going to have to apologize to her. He hadn't meant to be snappish, but he was more worried about Ron at the moment than Hermione's anger. It wouldn't have helped them anyways and -

Mrs. Weasley sighed.

Harry attempted to catch Hermione's eye, but she purposefully ignored him, giving Mrs. Weasley that same, accusatory stare.

Mrs. Weasley sighed again, and almost at once, tears started streaming down her face. Hermione looked at Harry then, obviously alarmed with the fact that Mrs. Weasley was crying and -

Why was she so distraught? Harry knew it simply couldn't be _because_ of the fact that she had given her son a Sleeping Draught and altered his memory. It went deeper than that. It was... darker than that. Something within Harry tugged uncomfortably, and he dipped his finger into Ron's empty cup, scooping chocolate on his fingers. He was never good with women when they cried... he would never be able to comfort Mrs. Weasley the way that she _needed_ to be comforted and -

"Mum!"

Harry and Hermione jumped, turning towards the entrance to the kitchen, watching as the twins and Ginny came in. Ginny immediately went to her mother and eased her out of her chair, forcing her towards the entrance to the kitchen. The twins watched her with something akin to apprehension on their faces, but noticed that the farthest their mother made it from the kitchen, the quieter she became. Harry's stomach clenched, and he couldn't help but feel guilty.

"Ron's sleeping," George said as soon as his mother left the kitchen. Harry and Hermione couldn't help but notice that the twins were both oddly serious.

"Why did Mum cry?"

Hermione flushed guiltily and turned away.

"She gave Ron a Sleeping Draught and a Memory Potion." Harry licked his lips. "What the bloody hell is wrong with Ron?"

Both of the twins paled, and Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"We have a right to know," Hermione said sharply. "Ron's our-"

"You kind of lost the right to know the moment you left Ron," Ginny replied nastily as she entered the kitchen. "I flooed Dad. He and Mum are talking now. And shove off, Harry. I don't want to hear it."

Harry glared at her.

"But seeing as to how you're Ron's best mate-"

"-at the moment, since he's lost his memory-"

"-I think that you do have a right to know-"

-what happened to Ron and why Mum's-"

"-giving him Sleeping Draught's and Memory Potions." Fred and George paused, and Harry couldn't help but feel annoyed at the way that they finished each others sentences.

"Well?" Hermione asked forcefully. "Are you going to-"

"See," Fred started, rubbing his nose in resignation. "The reason why Mum is drugging Ron is because-"

"-Several months ago-"

"-A year ago to be exact-"

"-Something happened to Ron-"

"-Something horrible-"

"-Terrible-"

"-Awful-"

"-Disgusting-"

"-Excruciating-"

"-Painful-"

"-Agonizing-"

"Oh get on with it!" Hermione snapped impatiently. The twins nodded, glaring at one another for getting so completely off track.

"Anyhow," George said, sitting down. "The thing is, it happened over ten months ago."

"About a year ago to be exact," Fred added. "Ron went on a mission for the Order."

Something inside both Harry and Hermione froze painfully. Ginny sucked in a sharp, agonizing breath.

"And we went with him-"

"-But we got separated-

"-And when we finally caught up to Ron-"

"-The mission was already complete-"

"-But Ron was a little banged up-"

"-And it wasn't until six months later-"

"-That Dumbledore finally got a clue-"

"-And kicked him out of the Order."

Hermione took in a calm steadying breath, dreading the answer to the question that was currently haunting her. "What... what happened to Ron?"

"He went slightly mental," Fred said slowly.

George shook his head. "More like he went completely and utterly mad."

Hermione's eyes widened. "But - but he seemed so normal to me even after... I don't understand. What _happened?_"

Ginny sighed, rubbing her temples furiously, and Harry sat down heavily in a seat.

"Well, when Ron remembers everything, which happens after he's consumed enough alcohol - Firewhiskey has the tendency to negate the effects of a potent Memory Potion - he starts going mad. He just laughs hysterically and won't stop crying. What's worse is he goes on and on about the Unforgivables and the Dark Mark. Sometimes he just sits and stares at nothing, and then he goes on mumbling about things that... well, to be honest, when he says them, he reminds me of Hermione."

Hermione looked to Harry, her face pale and her eyes stinging from the tears. "What - what do you mean?" Hermione asked quietly, her voice hoarse and her throat sore.

Fred shrugged. "No idea to be honest. But it usually sounds like he's having a conversation with himself. But the conversation always revolves around Percy."

If possible, Hermione's face became even paler. "And Voldemort?"

George nodded, his expression blank.

"And he usually compares the two to himself?"

This time, both twins nodded, staring openly at Hermione as though she were some strange, foreign creature that they had never seen before.

"I - I always wondered what it was that suddenly made him start talking about them so much," Hermione said quietly. "He even got so angry at me when I told him that he was pathetic, that he left bruises on my shoulders from grabbing me so hard." Tears started streaming from her eyes, and Hermione turned to Harry, her chest aching painfully. "If I'd have known that he was going mad I'd... oh, _Merlin. Harry._"

Harry and the rest of the Weasley's merely watched her in fascination.

"It's my fault," she whispered. "If I'd have noticed that something was wrong... but, no. So much for the Cleverest-Witch-Of-My-Age! I couldn't even tell when my own boyfriend was going mad!"

Ginny laughed at the irony.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Speak Softly (2/?)

**Summary: **War is reason for insanity, and in the face of danger, insanity can be inescapable. A series of vignettes chronicling Ron's, Hermione's, and Harry's life towards the end of the war.

**Genre: **angst, drama, tragedy, horror, post-hogwarts, pre-HBP

**Pairing:** Ron/Hermione, Harry/Hermione

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**Edited 6/29/2010: **Minor spelling and formatting errors corrected.

* * *

_**December 30, 1999, 1:23 a.m.**_

He couldn't remember it at first.

He had seen the stars - oh, how lovely the stars had been - and the longer he looked at them, the more he came to the realization that soon, they would be stained with red. It had been a strange thought, one that he never would associate himself with, but it was there, nonetheless. He couldn't quite remember how he had gotten outside... the last thing he truly remembered was sitting outside with... with _her_ and - a small indulgent smile came to his face, and he sighed bitterly.

This was just a dream then, and soon, he would hear their voices once again. He would hear them begging him to choose something different; he would hear _her_ asking him why he never moved towards something new, why he never really _tried_ to do anything but... mope around, for lack of a better word. But he knew better. He knew better than most, and he knew better than he first allowed himself to let on. Of course they didn't know that, with the frequency that his mother shoved those potions down his throat along with that insufferable disgustingly sweet chocolate... the burning in his stomach always managed to diminish it. There was always a way around everything, and although there were multiple times that they tried to stop him, although there were times when they even attempted to rid their home of his blessed remembrance, there had been holes.

Holes in his mind, in his heart, and the more he asked around for _her_, the more dangerous it became, and they couldn't take the risk. So they let him drink, they let him taste that vile, bitter, burning taste on his tongue, and fragments continued to replay back to him. Fragments appeared to him in dreams, in wakefulness, and every time he remembered, it was always something different.

But it almost always had to do with _her_.

_Hermione._

Oh, how he loved being able to touch her once again. It had caused his body to burn with pleasure - he could almost remember the feeling of her slick, sweaty body sliding up against his. Her quiet, harsh breaths as she gasped for air, the way her body stretched and tightened around him - it had been there, flickering in the forefront of his mind, but almost as soon as it had appeared, it was wrenched painfully away from him, and his mother was there, once again, shoving those potions down his throat, hidden by the thick, disgusting chocolate, and they were slowly fading away.

He could tell that something was wrong, almost as soon has he had looked into her eyes. She had looked... alarmed, as though there was something that she wanted to say, but then his mind was slipping farther and farther away from him, into the recesses of his subconscious, and voices were taking over him, playing with him.

He knew it was a dream, otherwise, he wouldn't be here.

Ron never remembered exiting his house, that was for certain.

The air was surprisingly warm, despite the snow. He could feel it wanting to nip at his skin, to freeze his blood, but then his hand tightened around his wand, and he could feel it's warmth seeping into him. It was extremely tantalizing to him, and he cast the Warming Charm, a faint, appreciative smile on his face. The warmth settled over his body almost immediately, and he glanced around, expecting to see... to see nothing and everything all at once.

The fog that settled over the small, snowy, clearing caused a chill to run up his spine, but he continued to stand in one place, not wanting to take a step foward, not wanting to run, for fear of what he might do. It was always the same, nothing ever changed. But soon... _soon_, he would hear _her_ and _him_ quietly questioning his fears, quietly admonishing him, quietly scolding him, secretly... _caring_ for him. He forced a bitter laugh from his mouth.

Caring.

Yes, they had cared for him so wonderfully, hadn't they? Despite everything, despite what the three of them had once been, they had still betrayed him. They had still allowed his infernal overbearing mother to give him those potions. They had allowed him to sit completely still and be overtaken because of his... ignorance? Illness? Regardless, they had taken advantage of him. He didn't particularly care to ask why. It didn't matter to him. Nothing really mattered to him anymore, but this? It was beginning to get rather annoying. It didn't matter that _she_ looked partially affronted when she realized what it was. It didn't matter that he could hear her yelling at his mother as he went up the stairs, his brothers situated on both sides of him. Because even his brothers had betrayed him.

Merlin, _everyone_ betrayed him.

_"Except me, my pet."_

The voices. Of course.

The voices were always there, attempting to trick him like they once had. Attempting to calm him, attempting to show him that they meant no harm. But... he didn't care. They were always there, in the back of his mind, whispering to him. Bringing forth his shattered memories. Feeding him one betrayal after another. He didn't particularly care for them, but he didn't exactly hate them either. But then again, he didn't think that he could ever trust them.

Something hot, like anger, shot through his body, and the mists gathered more tightly around him, chilling him to the bone. He could feel his memories seeping into his skull, appearing unbidden, un_wanted_ to the forefront of his mind. Something cold, icy, _freezing_ gripped his heart painfully, and he could see them slipping through his fingers, being devoured by something... something horrendous. Something... sinister.

_Dementors?_

But then, no, it couldn't be. There hadn't been Dementors on this planet since... since... since when? The answer was pooling somewhere in his mind, converting his information to a memory, but for some reason, every time he attempted to dip his mental fingers into the shimmering pool of silver, it shattered, breaking off into several different pieces, melting away into the darkness. Moving farther into the broken memories of his mind. _Hiding._

He wanted to question why it was hiding. He wanted to wonder what it was that he was being protected from but something freezing - _burning_ - gripped his shoulder tightly, it's long, thin fingers digging into his shoulder, and he winced in pain, tears streaming from his eyes. He could feel the ice spreading through his body, could feel it building in his throat, could feel himself wishing that it would tear through his flesh, choke him, break him, make him want to _bleed_ and yet -

And yet...

_"It was a mistake, wasn't it?"_

_"I thought you would always come to speak to me-"_

_"I was in love with you, too, Ron."_

Why did everything feel so wrong? Why did it feel like his heart was about to erupt in his chest, that his blood was about to freeze over and crystallize in his body? Why did it feel like his throat was being torn to shreds with each vicious gulp of air that he took? Why did it feel like something sticky and warm was slowly dripping from his hands, causing the grass to become slippery and dark and -

Ron's body pitched forward, and his face connected roughly with the earth. He could smell the sickening scent of blood mixing with the wet, slushy soil and snow, his fingers curling into the mud as blades of grass tickled the side of his face. He took in three deep shuddering breaths, his chest aching painfully with each chilly slice of air. He toes were unbearably numb, and he tried his hardest to regulate his breathing as he pushed himself up into a sitting position, attempting to peer through the thick, billowing fog.

He could sense the people around him, almost painfully. Their auras surged brightly around him, each tinged with darkness, but he could hear their whispers, could hear their sniggers. Ron struggled to his feet, attempting to gauge what exactly was going on, but something cold gripped his body, and he staggered forward, his knees connecting with saturated earth painfully.

_"Not yet,"_ the fog seemed to whisper. _"Let them come to you, my pet."_

The pain in his throat made it too difficult for him to speak, so Ron sank back on his heels, staring imploringly into the fog, the alarms bells going off in his mind. He could feel the fog wrap itself more securely around his body, and for a moment, he could feel his muscles relaxing. He could feel the false sense of security creep its way into his jagged mind - could hear the voices whispering conspiratorially, the unheard taunt hidden wondrously. But then the cold seeped into his aching limbs, and he wheezed roughly, his ribs and lungs aching painfully. The air broke through his warming charm, and he could feel the backlash, as small as it was, split through his body.

Through the dark haze of silver, Ron wondered whether or not the Gods hated him.

His dreams... his dreams were never this extreme, this excruciating. There was always that cold sense of dread that hung over him, whenever he visited the clearing. He was used to it. But for the cold to cling to his body, to break through his warming charm... he felt his aura surge slightly, then calm, as the minor residual magic build-up echoed back into his wand.

He wanted to move, desperately. His limbs were aching far too much for him to remain in one place - that feeling alone made him want to panic. It made him want to curl under his covers and clutch his cool sheets in his fingers, that comforting, burning feeling shooting through his body, tugging blissfully on his nerves, heating his blood. But instead - _instead_ he was pressed forcefully into the snow, his fingers curled painfully into the mud, and his brown eyes opened wide, listening obediently as the voices whispered and fluttered around him.

A hysterical smile threatened to break out over his face.

Hadn't there been something, some_time_ when he told someone that hearing voices wasn't a good sign? Or... or had it been someone telling _him_ that it was wrong?

Ron's brow furrowed almost immediately, and he shifted his arm against the pocket of his trousers, feeling for his wand. The reassuring warmth against his leg made it almost bearable to stand against the deadening chill, but then the voice hadn't come back. It hadn't told him whether he was allowed to move or speak or leave and...

The hand descended on his shoulder again, and yanked him to his feet.

Ron stumbled slightly, accidentally splashing mud against his legs. For a second, he felt compelled to let out a startled yelp; he was used to giving into such impulsive actions, after all, for he _did_ kiss _her_ earlier, even though everything in his being had told him not to, and yet, her fierce stubbornness had caused his stomach to knot painfully, and it was all he could do to keep from touching her. From devouring her.

The smile that split his face was almost maniacal.

_"My precious little pet."_

"Yeah?" he rasped, his throat throbbing painfully from its use. He stood at attention, trying his best to ignore the fog that surrounded him, that pricked at him, that caused him to grip his wand tightly. He cleared his throat again, flinching at the way his stomach twisted and the bitter taste of bile rose, before smoothing out the front of his wet shirt. It clung to him uncomfortably, but as the coolness threatened to descend upon him again, Ron cast a quick and inefficient drying spell, his other hand moving to push his fiery hair from his eyes.

All around him, people proceeded to chuckle.

_"Do not get impatient, my pet."_ Ron glared through the fog. _"Soon. Soon you will be able to make your mark."_

Ron frowned, his forehead creasing in consternation, before he gave a swift, quick nod of assent. He had wanted to be shocked, had thought he could be, but instead, all he could feel was the slight prickling of unease. The aura closest to him flared, as though in pleasure, and it's dark edges grew dangerously. Ron's eyes narrowed once again, and the whispering ceased immediately.

There was a quiet sloshing noise to his left, and he turned to it instinctively. He could feel everyone flaring around him, and for a moment, his world was beginning to stretch, being to eat at the harsh, dark shadows that threatened to drown their auras. It was stretching to its limit, forcing him to take in everyone and everything and - a dull throb began to echo through his skull, and his vision blurred. He tried his hardest to call it back, to focus, but the shadows were growing stronger; they were forcing the fog to curl around him more tightly, and standing there, Ron felt the wand in his hand go cold. His blood, it felt like it was about to freeze in his very veins, and when he looked to his wrist, he could see the startling blue, thin bulge against the underside of his skin.

There was a chuckle from somewhere near him, and he turned again, his eyes squinting.

_"Do you sense it, my pet?"_ Everything seemed to be pressing against him seductively, and Ron couldn't help but shiver as the aura grew brighter, a hand extending to grip his shoulder._ "The shadows, the darkness? You were created for this. Created for the fires and the blizzards of hell. Created to taste the darkness and the light. To eat life and ensure death. This, my pet, is you."_

The throb in Ron's head grew insistent, pounding forcefully against his skull. He rubbed at his eyes, threw his hair away from his eyes in irritation, and stared, transfixed at the blackening aura closest to him. He was vaguely aware of the hand that gripped his shoulder, crafted beautifully with alabaster skin, and long, sharp nails. The skin was drawn taunt around it's bones, and if it weren't for the subtle glimmer of the fog, he was sure it would be a sickly gray color.

"...what?"

The shadows reached down and kissed the fog around him, causing it to thin, then dissipate. For Ron, it was almost as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, once that was cold and brutal, but as it moved away, the auras diminished to nothing, and all he could see were cloaked figures, situated at the edge of the small clearing. They stood around him, in a perfect circle, their white masks glittering in the faint moonlight.

Ron blinked, the sight oddly painful to him, and he whirled around, only to be stopped by that same, thin hand. It, too, was almost drowned in black, but other than it's now sickly gray skin, nothing else was being seen. He felt that same, almost comforting, twist of his stomach, the bitter taste of bile teasingly gliding over his taste buds, before he forced his displeasure back down his throat and into his knotted stomach.

_"Do you not understand? You were made for this. Made for death."_

Ron's hands shook almost imperceptibly. "You're mental," he whispered, shaking his head and doing his best not to flinch when the pain in his head almost erupted. "You're bloody mental."

_"But you dream about it, my pet. You dream of using what you most hate against those that you love most, do you not?"_ Ron took in a sharp, cutting breath, doing his best to ignore the heat that surged through his throat, once again. He fidgeted, plunging his hands into his pockets, trying his best to find something to do with his hands. His right had become sweaty; his wand was too slick to hold but still... _still_ there was... truth? Acceptance? Whatever it was he heard in those words, he knew that there was something wrong with his situation. He knew that, despite all obvious pretenses that it _wasn't_ a dream any longer. It couldn't have _been_ a dream, regardless, because he never felt pain and cold the way he had before, the way that he was now. He could hear the whispers, yes, but they always accompanied him everywhere, giving him small, laughable suggestions that made him want to curl his hands around his throat and squeeze until he couldn't breathe anymore. But now... there was something _different_, something he couldn't exactly place that he wanted to, so desperately, but _couldn't_ and -

And yet...

The shadow was right. And the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to pick his wand from his pocket and whisper those calming, indestructible words.

Licking his lips, Ron turned back towards the circle of cloaked figures, his mind furiously working to remind him. What was it he had forgotten? Surely there was something that was wrong here, something that he should have remembered, something that was supposed to make sense, but at the current moment _wasn't_ and - and _what?_

_"It could bend her to your will, those words."_ The whisper was seductive and tantalizing, causing him to shiver disgustingly in pleasure. _"You could hold her, touch her, have her. She would be yours to own, my pet."_

Ron nodded jerkily, wincing at the surge of pain in his head. "Yeah... yeah. I know."

_"So why don't you use them? Why don't you take back what is rightfully yours?"_

Brown eyes narrowed at the teasing lilt of the voice, and Ron could feel the indignant anger rising swiftly within him.

_"Calm yourself, my pet."_ That same hand returned, gripping his shoulder tightly. Ron lifted his hand, and jerkily pushed his hair from his eyes, staring restlessly at one of the hooded figures. It was holding itself completely still, but there was something regally arrogant about the entire ordeal. _Where have I seen that before?_

The shadow behind him seemed to chuckle. _"Do not worry yourself, my pet. Soon you shall know. But first, you shall make your mark."_

Ron's fingers twitched in anticipation. "What... what do I have to do?"

If it could, Ron was positive that the shadow would be smiling. He felt the urge to grip his wand, and as though on auto-pilot, he drew it, the pain in his head fading to something calming and euphoric. He felt the happiness coursing through him, the delicious feeling of joy, and his body was turning automatically at the whispered command.

Somewhere through the haze, he knew that something was wrong. Even behind the haze of euphoria, he could feel the dread settle over him, could feel his mouth go dry and his eyes widened as two, young wizards were thrown at his feet. As two pairs of familiar eyes - _one brown, the other blue_ - looked up at him, recognition flaring throughout them. He could feel the ice creeping towards him, tugging fitfully on the leg of his trousers, but he ignored it, instead taking in the fear, the anger, the _betrayal_...

"You _bastard_," the wizard snarled.

Why did they hate him?

"... _Susan?_" The voice was his own, but the inflections were not, and he could tell, almost at once, that she sensed something was wrong with him. "Susan Bones, was it?"

She gave a brief jerk of her head and stared at him, her brown eyes wide. Ron shifted his attention then, to the man that was crouched besides him, indignation and disbelief clearly written across his features. There was something about him that he knew he didn't like, and it flared instinctively through the haze of euphoria. But something stronger pushed it back, and a cruel wicked smile curved Ron's lips, his once bright, expressive brown eyes, dark and unseeing.

"_Zacharias Smith_," he hissed, and watched delightedly as Susan flinched.

"Please," she whispered quietly. "Don't... don't hurt him."

Ron found himself laughing at the gentle prod in his mind, and his throat burned in protest. "_Don't hurt him? My precious little pet has every right to hurt him, my lovely. My pet has every right to make his bones splinter, to have his blood spill through his fingers."_ Susan shrunk back in shock, and Zacharias shielded her as best he could, his fingers gripping at the witches shoulders painfully. _"You ask for mercy, my lovely. But death has none."_

The laugh was cold and shrilly, and - _notmenotmenotme, _Ron screamed from behind the blanket of euphoria- the hands that gripped his wand, the voice that whispered the words, the power that surged through the wand, causing it to turn black and hot against pale freckly skin, the green flash of light that surged forward through the clearing... it wasn't _his._ He watched, horrified, as Zacharias' body crumpled almost at once, but his brown eyes reflected only mirth and happiness.

_This isn't what I want! Not like this, Merlin, make it stop!_

_"Not yet, my pet. We are not yet finished."_

"Ron!" Susan screamed, and tried to lunge at him, but the words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to beat the euphoria away. _Crucio._

_Is there mercy in pain?_

_"Death gives no mercy, my pet."_

_So why is she still alive?_

The screams stopped almost at once, and a sense of grim satisfaction settled over the clearing. The shadow loomed behind him imperiously, daring him to make a move. Daring him to... to do what? But the euphoria was already fading from his mind, and Susan was sobbing against the muddy, snowy earth, and even though Death wasn't merciful, Ron _was_, and there was nothing else that he could _do_ except whisper those two fatal words. There was nothing else he could do except for allow his wand to cool and blacken in his hand because... because _this_ was _his_ power, and though the light wasn't as green as the shadows, it still caused his retinas to burn and his head to ache and Susan's body to slump over onto the earth, her tears glittering on her cold, alabaster cheeks.

He felt something painful twist inside him, and he turned slowly, numbly, towards the shadow, tears stinging his eyes.

_What next?_

_"Leave your mark, my pet."_

"It's not mine," Ron wheezed, clutching his throat. The shadow seemed to loom over him, but then it wrapped it's hand around Ron's, pointed his wand to the sky, and whispered seductively into his ear. _"A mark is still a mark, my pet. It matters not what it means."_

"It's not... I can't... don't make me."

_"Say it, my pet. Only one soothing little word."_

"I _can't._"

_"SAY IT!"_

Dread descended upon him almost at once, and his wand burned in his palm. The sweat on his hand caused his wand to slip as he flicked it through the air, the words ripping through his abused and aching throat. The tears were almost blinding, the pain in his head too insistent to be noticed and - and he could see their glassy eyes, staring at him accusingly, and it was all Ron could do not to choke on his own vomit.

"MORSMORDRE!"

The dread increased, pressed against him, and tears slipped down his cheeks as he turned towards the outer ring of cloaked figures. They were all disappearing, one by one, and Ron stared through the burning, blinding tears, as the arrogant one began to shift. The moon glittered off of the alabaster mask, and through it, he could see the glitter of silver, watching him carefully.

_Better luck next time, _it seemed to say.

Ron could almost see the smirk through the mask.

The shadow behind him wavered, then gripped his shoulder. There was the vague sense of something pinching his skin, then almost at once, Ron screamed at the explosion of pain in his body. Screamed at the way metal cut neatly and fiercely through bone, causing warm, thick blood to ooze from the open wound, down his shoulder, soaking his already wet clothes.

He staggered painfully, his wand slipping from his sweaty, blood-slicked hands, and he fell forward, into the snow, into the mud. Pain thundered in his head, pounding on his skull, cracking bone, forcing his teeth into his lip - _splitting flesh, tasting blood, growing shadows, soft cries of pain, crimson snow, muddy hands, blackened wands, darknessdarknessdarkness, take me away, please, take me away... sweet, sweet oblivion._

_Take away my pain._

_"Death gives no mercy, my pet."_

Miles and miles away, Ron shot up in his bed, his throat burning painfully as tears streamed down his face.

* * *

_**December 29, 1999, 10: 10 p.m.**_

By the time Ginny had finally managed to get her half hysterical laughter under control, Hermione was feel inexplicably guilty. Harry had attempted to soothe her, but the guilt had already manifested itself in the pit of her stomach, and she could feel it slowly, but surely, making it's way to the surface. She knew that she could keep it under wraps for the moment - there was so much more that she needed to think about, aside from her own guilt, and that there was absolutely no way that she would be able to abate it, regardless.

But still, she couldn't help but feel somewhat bitter.

Fred and George had been uncharacteristically helpful about the entire ordeal, and Hermione knew, almost at once, that they, too, felt guilty about what happened to their brother. After all, it had been on their watch - their mission - that Ron was hurt. It had been their responsibility to look after him, to make sure that everything was as well as it could be and... all missions for the Order were dangerous, there was nothing else that could be done about it. They all knew that risks that accompanied those missions, they all knew the danger. It was something that Dumbledore had made certain was pounded into their heads before their initiation. But, truth be told, Hermione hadn't really expected anything.

A duel, perhaps. Some magical injuries. All of those made sense.

But... but _madness_? Even though she had heard it, even though the twins had both told her, what - in a few nondescript words - had happened, she still found it hard to believe. Ron... Ron just didn't seem to be insane. He was filled with righteous anger and indignation. He was depressed and upset and moody but... but this? Insanity? Somehow, it just didn't fit into what made Ron... Ron. The lanky redhead seemed to be stronger than that. But then again, whenever he seemed so very far away, he was always whispering to himself, and although she had noticed it, she had thought that he was merely whispering foul language under his breath.

But insanity?

Hermione's gut twisted painfully.

How could Dumbledore have let this happen? How could Ron have let this happen? How could Fred and George and - and _everyone have missed it?_ How could _she_ have missed it?

Slowly, Hermione lifted her head from the table, and stared at her hands blankly.

It had started with her.

Ron had come to her, by himself, and attempted to speak with her. At first he had been fidget-y, nervous, but after a moment of almost quiet coaxing, she had managed to get it out of him. To say that she was shocked was a lie. She was... well, she was more skeptical about it than anything. She had snorted in a Ron-like snort and pushed him away, telling him that all of his fears were unfounded. But he had merely looked at her, something dark and fiery in his eyes, and it was then that Hermione realized the fire within him began to burn a different color. It hadn't been - it wasn't _Ron_ and for a moment, it almost frightened her. But then he was sarcastic and rude and completely lacked table-manners once again, and Hermione knew that she had nothing to worry about.

But then, it became a regularity.

She had been stupid to ignore it.

But now... now what was she supposed to do? Everything had seemed so... _normal_ only... only it wasn't. Nothing pertaining to the three of them ever was. Defeated, Hermione pressed her lips together tightly, and turned towards Harry, watching as his green eyes looked at the kitchen window carefully, as though it held all the secrets in the world. They both sat completely alone, silent, before their eyes connected.

The reaction was almost instantaneous as they both broke out in tiny chuckles that slowly became half-hysterical laughter. Tears streamed down their faces violently, and before she realized it, Hermione's breath was hitching painfully, and each sharp gasp she took caused her lungs to burn. She had a feeling that Harry wasn't any better off, because his fingers and knuckles were completely white from gripping the edge of the table tightly.

She didn't know how long it lasted, but after a moment, she was clinging to Harry almost painfully, her face buried into the side of his neck. He patted her awkwardly, and the gesture made Hermione giggle at once. _Oh, Harry. You haven't changed a bit._

"Er... I'd say don't cry but..."

"I'd smack you, if you told me to do that," Hermione answered primly, before pushing away from him. Harry grinned at her, and rubbed his side, before leaning back in his chair.

"I didn't see that coming."

Hermione nodded her agreement.

"I just don't... you'd think that... why didn't Dumbledore tell us? If he knew what was wrong, why didn't he tell us? Why did he just let it happen?"

"Because we'd get distracted. Because there are other things that we're fighting for... because..." Hermione trailed off, and pursed her lips, before rubbing her forehead groggily. "I can't think."

Harry gasped. "Oh no," he whispered melodramatically, "the world's coming to an end!"

Hermione scowled. "Your life's coming to an end if you don't shut up."

"Yes, mum," Harry relented, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Bed?"

"Actually, I really want a bath but I suppose it'll have to wait."

Harry nodded.

"Did you manage to catch where they were setting us up?" Harry asked, reaching out to fiddle with the yellow tea cosy.

"Charlie's old room." Hermione sighed and gave Harry a speculative look. "I know you, Harry Potter."

"Well, obviously. I highly doubt-"

"_Please_," Hermione started stiffly. "Save your sarcasm for another time, Harry. I was merely suggesting that... whatever you say to them, make sure that you..." Hermione paused for a moment, her brow furrowing. Almost absently, Harry's fingers clenched the tea cosy, waiting to hear what Hermione had to say. Waiting to hear just _how_ precisely, Hermione was going to inadvertently berate and criticize him without even trying. No matter what he did or how he attempted to point it out to her, it was like a bad habit that just couldn't be broken. Of course, she never really _meant_ to be so disheartening, and it was something that Harry could understand. She was just logical. She always had a logical approach to situations, always wanted to make sure that there was nothing that was overlooked and... Harry sighed, before fixating his attention on her.

He still didn't understand, and even now, it continued to grate on his nerves.

"Make sure that I...?"

"Ron _can_ take care of himself, Harry. By the way Ginny acted, she'll believe the contrary but... I don't think that Ron is going to go around attempting to get himself killed or ally himself with Voldemort or some such rubbish as that. The only thing we can really do is support him." Hermione nodded briefly after that, and Harry gave her a tiny grin.

"All that coming from someone who-"

"I'm going to _bed_," Hermione snapped. "Really Harry, you might want to watch what you say. I'm suffering under massive stress and I'm not in the proper state of mind to discern a stinging hex from the Killing Curse."

Harry merely grinned at her. "Of course, Hermione."

Huffing, Hermione extracted herself from her chair. Harry's hand automatically reached out to still her, but after a second's hesitation, he withdrew it, turning his gaze back towards the kitchen window. Hermione looked at him, oddly baffled, before she pursed her lips together and glared at the wall. Despite everything that just happened, he was already distancing himself, attempting to cope with what was going on.

It surprised Hermione that he would withdraw so quickly, but after everything that happened, she truly wasn't surprised that it did. Harry had already been through so much already; it was quite intriguing to know that he was only suffering from bouts of hysteria. Hermione knew that, had she been in his situation, she would collapsed long ago. Perhaps, staring out into the darkness was the only way to categorize his thoughts. Hermione sighed and shook her head. Now was not the time to think about it.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow she would be able to talk to Ron. Tomorrow she would be able to worry about her friend's condition, worry about their reaction to it and... and perhaps they might be able to get some answers. Dumbledore had... well, in truth, almost _all_ of the Weasley's had lied to them, with the exception of Ginny. Almost all of Weasley's had known about his condition - perhaps, not Bill and Charlie, but Fred and George had, and that was enough - and yet none of them thought it appropriate to tell her.

She knew that Ginny had known something was wrong. There was rarely anything that could get passed Ginny's observation, if she was truly _looking_ and -

"Speak of the devil," Hermione muttered, exhausted, as Ginny walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Hermione paused in her position at the foot of the stairs, wanting so desperately to simply go into the kitchen and... _and what?_ She asked herself. _Eavesdrop? I highly doubt Harry would appreciate it. It's almost as though I'd be questioning his trust. He trusted me with Ron, didn't he? So why can I not trust him with Ginny?_

It almost startled her to realize that it didn't really matter.

_Ginny will keep her distance,_ Hermione thought as she climbed the stairs. _She knows better._

Sometime between reaching Charlie's bedroom and slipping into her bedclothes, Hermione realized that she was hardly reassured. Of course, she knew that there shouldn't be _anything_ that she needed to be worried about. Harry trusted Ginny. Ginny was the only person Harry could trust to keep Ron safe... it didn't matter to Harry that there were others but... but Ginny was truly devoted to her family. Ginny was the only person who actually stayed home during the day, aside from Ron, but that was only because she felt duty bound. She had no job, except within the Order. She had no loyalties, except to the Order and her family. And her family? Her family meant more to her than anything.

So she knew that she shouldn't have cared, that it shouldn't have bothered her. And truth was, it didn't bother Hermione that Ginny and Harry were both by themselves. She could trust them. After everything that they had been through together, Hermione could trust them with her life. But... but she couldn't help but feel something strange prickle in the back of her throat.

Yes, with her life. But why not more?

And why didn't she exactly _care_?

Hermione wanted to blame it on Ron. He was the only one she could pinpoint everything on... the only one, if she were being honest. He had been the one to kiss her, after all, and although they were no longer in school, Hermione felt as though she was some sort of blushing school girl. She had loved the way it felt, being touched. Again. By Ron.

The simple fact that all that was going through her head was his name, even after it was all said and done... she had begged him to tell her that it was a mistake. Had begged him to let her know that her engagement was all right with him. She had begged him to let her know that everything was behind him... that he still didn't hurt the way that she did and...

And he was insane.

Something hitched in her chest, and Hermione buried her face into one of the pillows, resisting the urge to scream.

Oh how she hated life.

But, if she were being honest, she hated herself just a little bit more.

"_Stupid_," Hermione murmured, inhaling deeply. "Stupid sodding idiot."

Behind her, the door closed noiselessly.

"How you wound me," Harry replied, flopping down on the bed next to her. Hermione shifted her gaze from the wall and to him, her guilt bubbling horridly. Just looking at him reminded her of the fact that, mere hours ago, she had been kissing and aching and arching against his best friend. _His best friend!_ She screamed to herself. _I've always despised promiscuous people, and I'm becoming one before my very eyes._

"If you must know," Hermione said quietly, an edge to her voice, "I was speaking of myself, not you."

Harry gave her an extremely odd look. "Why?"

Hermione sighed, averting her gaze to the spot over Harry's shoulder. "Ron," she offered by means of explanation.

Something must have dawned on him, because Harry's green eyes widened ever so slightly, before his face became blank, neutral.

"Not your fault," he said, before rolling off the bed and stripping to his underclothes. Hermione sighed again, this time in frustration, before rolling over onto her side, facing completely away from him.

She knew it was odd to him. She could tell by the way that his eyes lingered on the spot between her shoulder blades that he was allowing his mind to run away with him - that he was shifting through conclusion after conclusion about _why_ she was calling herself an idiot and turning her back on him and -

_Massive stress,_ she told herself, _I'm just under massive stress._

Somehow, she wasn't convinced.

"So," Harry started conversationally, twirling her hair around his finger.

"Yes, Harry?" Hermione asked, exasperated.

"What exactly did you and Ron discuss out near the lake?" Hermione's body tensed at the question, but Harry's fingers only tightened in her hair, causing her to wince slightly.

"Nothing," she replied, feeling incredibly guilty. Licking her lips, Hermione shifted until she was facing him completely, the guilt threatening to overwhelm her. "We just sort of... sat there."

Harry gave her a guarded look. "_And_?"

"We _talked_," Hermione snapped, snatching her hair away from him. She could feel Harry press closer to her, trail his fingers over her shoulder, and Hermione couldn't help but shiver. "About us... you and me, us. Not him and me, us."

Harry sighed loudly, his fingers digging into Hermione's shoulder.

"Is it all right?"

Hermione pursed her lips, but refused to pull away.

"Yes," she lied, trying her best to relax. Trying her best not to let her voice waver. She could tell that he was thinking; Hermione always knew when he was thinking. His fingers were always harder, his face looked more brutal... darker. Whenever he was thinking about something that made him unhappy, his whole demeanor changed, and no matter what she tried to do, he would always draw in on himself. Not once did he allow himself to speak out his fears... for if he did, they were sure to happen. It was an illogical fear, after all. Who could control what happened to other people? It was stupid and immature for Harry to think that everything _he_ did always rebounded onto other people, and yet...

And yet, somehow, it always managed to happen.

Harry had feared that Sirius was going to die, after all, and he did. But that... that was silly of her. It had been almost five years since that event, but Hermione knew that it never really left them. It never left any of them... Harry, Lupin, Tonks, Dumbledore... it was a weight that continued to haunt them, no matter what they did. And it was because of him that Harry finally decided to join the Order. Even after Ron had left, or was, according to the twins, kicked out, Harry promised to stay. And despite all the deaths that continued to happen around him, the one that had mattered to him most had been Sirius'.

"You don't drink alcohol, you know," Harry whispered into her shoulder.

"I'm well aware of that, Harry," Hermione replied through a yawn. She could almost feel him grin against her shoulder.

"I know you are," he continued. "And you especially hate Firewhiskey. You would _never_ touch it, especially after the fiasco seventh year."

Hermione nodded and snuggled down into her pillow, attempting to ignore the feeling of dread that had suddenly descended upon her person.

"It's not that bad, though, if you really think about it. It's just a drink, something to wet your pallet and -"

"Can destroy your liver. It doesn't matter how much you drink, Harry, it still affects you, no matter how much you have." Another yawn, and another snuggle later, Hermione slowly closed her eyes. "Is there a point to this conversation?"

"Well, no, not really," Harry answered nonchalantly. "Just wanted to point out that you don't drink alcohol no matter what."

"Oh," Hermione murmured, craving the sleep that continually refused to remain on the edges of her drowsy mind. "That's wonderful."

"And that Ron obviously lied."

"Yeah," Hermione answered automatically, completely unaware of the way that Harry suddenly tensed behind her. "Obvious...ly. _Oh._"

Her stomach knotted painfully, and it was all Hermione could do to keep her reaction under control. She felt herself panicking. She could feel her pulse begin to race, could feel her heart beat begin to quicken... the sudden urge to pull herself away from Harry and begin to explain everything to him was clouding her mind, making her hate herself. But then... he was going to hate her, too, if she told him anything. He was going to hate Ron even more, but... but Ron was insane, wasn't he? So, really, it couldn't have been Hermione's fault that Ron had suddenly decided to kiss her, although it was her fault that she never left when he asked her to. Oh, she was an _idiot._

Ron couldn't stop touching her all night. Everyone saw it. Everyone noticed it. But regardless, she had _told_ Ron how she felt and still... _still_ he found it appropriate to touch her again. To be more than friendly.

Hermione had never felt so ill in her entire life.

"Harry?"

"Good night, Hermione."

Hermione sighed, and closed her eyes, wrapping the blanket more tightly around herself as Harry pulled away.

She was an idiot.

But, really, what was she supposed to do?

Harry wasn't going to hear any of it, no matter what she did to ask his forgiveness and... and if she were being completely honest with herself, she didn't want it anyways.

She had enjoyed it, after all.

But that _was_ her fault because... because no matter what she did, she still loved Ron.

More than was necessary.

* * *

_**December 30, 1999, 2:53 a.m.**_

Hermione had always been rather restless when she slept alone.

It hadn't been like that, not when she was with Ron, although there were plenty of relapses whenever he left. And it certainly wasn't that way whenever she could feel Harry's warm, comforting body next to hers. But despite the fact that Harry was still _there_, she felt incredibly cold, incredibly vulnerable. Incredibly alone. Hermione shifted, pulling the blanket even tighter around her body. She could feel him near, but his warmth bit at her, sneered at her, making her feel cold and lonely and _oh so very small._ Ever since they had been together... Harry did have his moments of awkwardness at first. He had been skeptical, unsure. But they were _both_ on the rebound and they had both been hurt and...

No matter what she tried, she would still feel betrayed.

Sighing, Hermione turned onto her side, towards Harry, so that she could watch him sleep.

It always bothered her, the way he was so stiff, even in his dreams. One little touch... one little _unfamiliar_ touch, and Harry would be awake, attempting to break her. And despite the fact that they were both in the same bed, Hermione knew that, most definitely, Harry would react to her. He had distanced himself from her. And, somehow, despite everything that they had both been through together, he wouldn't recognize her. He wouldn't _want_ to recognize her, especially after everything that had happened that night.

He had been warm, yet forceful, and despite her sleep encrusted mind, Hermione should have immediately sensed that something was wrong. But her bed had been so warm and comfortable that... there really was nothing that she could do. She was under too much stress, dealing with too many things, and she was simply too _exhausted_ to have been able to think clearly. But even after a measly three hours of sleep, she felt wide awake.

But that, in itself, was his fault.

Or, maybe it was hers, for letting her guard down. And she knew that, now, Harry wouldn't want to have anything to do with her. Merlin, Hermione knew that she wouldn't want to have anything to do with her either, especially after blatantly lying to him... although, technically, she didn't exactly _lie_ to him, rather, she allowed Ron to lie to him, but to Harry, she knew that it was practically the same thing. Sighing, Hermione tugged the blankets off of her and stood. It was always tiring, thinking of all the mistakes she made.

First, it had been kissing Ron. Now... it had been allowing Ron to lie to Harry. But then... then Harry might not have trusted Ron if Hermione _had_ told him that Ron had kissed her. Although, it could have been worse.

_It could always be worse, according to Ron_, Hermione thought with a small smile as she put a robe on.

But then again, everything was always _getting_ worse, according to Harry, and for the first time in a long time, Hermione felt truly trapped. It had been stupid of her, idiotic, convincing herself that it was all right to visit with her childhood friends. It had been stupid of her to think that maybe, just maybe, everything would be the same between her and Ron once again. That they could go back to just being _friends._

_Friends._

To Ron, that was a foreign concept, even now. _Especially now_, Hermione thought as she stepped out into the hallway and quietly closed the door. He wouldn't understand that they could only be _just friends_ because he was missing a year and a half of his memories and... Hermione only wished that she could leave before he woke up the next morning. Or, more preferably, that he wouldn't even think to come out of his room. He was bound to realize that something was wrong, especially since they weren't in her flat. But then... Hermione rubbed her temples and skipped two steps, not wanting them to creak.

It was almost hurtful to think about it.

Why would Mrs. Weasley even want to do that to her son, despite the problems he was facing? Hermione knew that if at least one person slipped up, or Ron saw one thing he wasn't meant to see, everything could be catastrophic. The potion would completely shatter his mind, making everything worse than it already was and... Hermione sighed as she walked into the kitchen.

It really wasn't her business.

It wasn't her _place_.

Because Ginny... Ginny had been _right_ when she told her that she lost all privileges when it came to Ron. His personal life was no longer her business unless he felt as though he wanted to bring it up. And despite the fact that she was his personal life at the time of his memory... guilt bubbled horribly beneath the surface, and she resisted the urge to clench her hands into fists.

She would have to pretend.

If the memory potion held up, she was going to have to pretend that she wasn't interested in Harry. She was going to have to pretend that Ginny was still dating Harry. She was going to have to pretend that she only felt guilty about the problems that Ron faced, and that they were both there, visiting Ron's family, despite the fact that after they graduated, Ron became a work addict. She was going to have to pretend that it was all right for him to lean over and kiss her in public, that it was all right for them to share the same bed. That it was all right for him to tell her that he cared about her, despite how... how long it usually took for him to even begin to _admit_ that he had feelings for her and -

Hermione never was all that good at pretending.

Especially if she had nothing to gain.

In fifth year, she had done so wonderfully with Umbridge - fake feelings of sorrow and guilt and _tears_ had tasted so lovely once - but she had needed her _gone._ And first year, she _had_ lied to all of her professors... of course, it really wasn't Harry's or Ron's fault that they needed to protect her from that stupid troll and... well, third year and keeping her time-turner _and_ Lupin's condition a secret had been less stressful than... everything else but - Hermione pressed her fingers to her eyes, loving the pressure.

She had been good at keeping secrets from her friends. Especially when the deceit had to do with her. But now - what had changed? Why did she allow herself to change so much? She couldn't lie to Harry. She couldn't lie to Ron. Now, she could do nothing but bare her soul, regardless of everything else that was going on around her, and it made her vulnerable. Ron had manipulated her into divulging into that little piece of temptation... it had clinched everything for her, made everything seem more _real_ than it had been moments ago. She had a year to heal, and even now... was she truly that weak? Hermione didn't want to think so, but for some reason, that tiny little nagging feeling wouldn't stop pulling at her - it wouldn't stop her from wanting to go back and kiss him just as violently as he had kissed her.

It was intoxicating, him tasting like alcohol, and it had been so fierce and sudden, she hadn't been expecting it. But it had been wondrous, and she did want to be able to taste him again and - Hermione paused as she heard the disgruntled sigh and lifted her head, her eyes going wide.

"Talking to yourself is quite a bad habit, you know, Hermione." Hermione shifted her weight to one foot nervously, and licked her lips. _Of all the times,_ she thought bitterly, wanting to bolt. "People will think you're completely bonkers."

"Thank you, Ron," Hermione murmured, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Ron nodded and leaned back in his chair, taking a rather large swig of Firewhiskey. "I wasn't aware."

"Funny, that is," Ron continued nonchalantly. "I always thought you knew everything."

"How utterly naive," Hermione answered patronizingly, wishing he would just wander away. Ron paused, looked at her, his eyes unnaturally dark. Hermione thought she could see something flicker behind them, could see the hunger and the want, but then it disappeared almost as soon as she had seen it, and she just _knew_ it was a trick of the light because, honestly? Ron couldn't truly be a_ware_ of everything that was going on, and there really was no light, anyways, aside from the stars and the moon that filtering in, through the window. It was actually a rather pretty night, if Hermione really thought about it, and she had wanted to, except Ron was standing and walking towards her, the glass bottle held tightly in his hands.

"Have you ever wondered, Hermione?"

"Wondered about what?" Hermione asked carefully, her eyes on Ron's as he stopped in front of her. He gave her a toothy, careful sort of grin, and Hermione could only blink in response, unsure.

His pupils were dilated, his eyes glassy and almost unfocused, but she could tell that he was watching her with surprising clarity. She knew that he could probably see every detail of her face, the way her breath was quickening as he raised a hand to her cheek and brushed thick curls away from her eyes. He could probably hear the quickening of her pulse, the slamming of her heart, could see the slight widening of her eyes.

There was a time when nothing he did could surprise her. But now, as he stood in front of her, asking nonsensical questions, there was something about him that almost frightened her. She could feel it creeping up her spine, that sense of dread, and perhaps the fear of what was about to happen frightened her more than he did. His fingers were still soft and warm, like they always were but - that deep, nagging ache echoed within her, and Hermione jerked away, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"Perhaps if you were making sense, I might be able to understand."

"Oh, Hermione, you never change." He moved away from her then, back towards the the table, and leaned against it nonchalantly, the bottle swinging from his fingertips. "But please, Hermione, answer me honestly."

"You're not yourself Ron," Hermione answered instead. "Perhaps you should go back to bed."

He jerked involuntarily, and his eyes narrowed, turning dark. "I'd rather stay up, thank you."

"Ron?"

"It's not really any of your business, is it Hermione? If you would quit being such a nosy little know-it-all, I _might_ -"

"Oh don't you dare patronize _me_, Ronald Weasley. I was concerned for you, _as a friend_ and -"

"But we aren't friends, are we, Hermione?"

The question chilled her, and she could see the change in him. He was suddenly more sure of himself - she could almost taste the arrogance that was rolling off of him. The anger. The resentment. It frightened her for a moment; it made her wish that she could have at least _tried_ to reconcile with Harry, after all, he would have _listened_ to her, if only she would have kept talking. But then again, he might have made up some excuse to just _leave_ and - Hermione licked her lips and took a step away from him, wishing that she would have been smart enough to turn around and just walk out of the kitchen when she had the chance.

Nervously, she glanced around the kitchen, barely taking in the five empty bottles of Firewhiskey on the table. Surprised, she turned to him as he took another long swig from the bottle he was drinking out of, before slamming it down on the table, and turning towards her, his eyes so dark, they looked completely black.

Could madness really do this to someone?

"No," she whispered in a rush of breath. "We're best friends, and - and we have been for _years_-"

Ron frowned, before shaking his head. "I don't get it," he said quietly. "They're not making much sense at the moment. _I just don't want to be like him."_ Ron paused, and looked up at her. "Have you ever wondered why, Hermione?"

"Ron, I - I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione answered helplessly, leaning against the wall.

"He's my brother, you see, so there's always a _reason._"

"You're not making any sense. You're not acting like yourself."

"You _knew_," Ron said dangerously. "You knew what that woman was giving me and you let her anyways, Hermione. I thought we were _friends._" Hermione's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Ron beat her to it. "But we're not even friends, are we? I don't - they don't make much sense anymore."

Hermione blinked.

"They usually sounded like you, you know. And Harry. But now... it doesn't make any sense, not anymore. I don't really get it."

"I don't understand," she repeated again, helplessly, hating the fact that she didn't know what he was talking about. Ron gave her a long, undecipherable look, before running his hand through his hair in exasperation. For a moment, the gesture reminded her oddly of Harry, but then, Ron's dark eyes came into focus, and instead of wild black hair, she saw wild red hair and freckles and smudges of dirt and expressive brown eyes that she wanted to _drown_ in.

Something within Hermione twisted painfully, and she averted her eyes, hating the pain. _Stupid,_ she thought, staring at smudges on Ron's t-shirt. _Stupid of me to come here._ She should have been over it. She should have been smart and intelligent enough to handle it, but she was drowning again, in this stranger that she didn't even know, and for a second, she could taste the alcohol burning her mouth and her lips once again, and she loved it.

But he was a stranger, one that she knew nothing about, and it frightened her because she had known his eyes once. She had known his moods and his touch and his taste and - and _this isn't Ron._ Because if it was Ron, he would have been smiling and laughing, not drinking and grieving over something that he could no longer have because... because Ron was stronger than that. She knew that he was stronger, and she had wanted _that_ because the strength was safe and normal, and she was used to it. He was too dangerous now. Too dark and brooding, and his sudden mood swings frightened Hermione, more than anything. The dread had descended upon her, made her shiver, but the more she attempted to ignore it, the more aware of it she became, because she could sense his eyes on her, taking in every little detail that _was_ her and -

Merlin, Hermione wished she had been smarter.

Ron could never sleep alone, either.

"I don't know you anymore, Ron," Hermione said quietly. "And I don't think -"

"Shut up, Hermione," Ron said jovially, leaving Hermione feeling oddly off kilter. "You know, someone once told me that the body remembers things that the mind forgets..." And he was pressing her into the wall, his fingers ghosting over her face, and she was regretting _everything_, because this new dangerous Ron was enticing and intoxicating and the old Ron and the old Harry were both so very _safe_, and she didn't quite want that, not anymore, but she still _loved_ them, and it wasn't really fair to leave them, not without warning. But then his lips were on hers, and his fingers were tugging her robe apart, shifting the fabric of her nightgown up her thighs, her eyes were fluttering closed of their own accord and -

_Merlin_, Hermione thought as he pressed against her, his hands moving everywhere and nowhere at once, _don't stop._

"But you never forget anything, do you Hermione?"

Hermione shook her head, attempting to clear away the fog. "Fifth... fifth year," she answered breathlessly. "During O.W.L.s, I mistranslated a rune. I thought it was virtue. It was really honor. The characters are similar, you see, and -"

Ron laughed rather loudly.

Hermione pressed her lips together tightly, and narrowed her eyes at him. He wasn't touching her anymore, merely looking at her, and she hadn't really understood why he started to, not in the first place, but it didn't matter because she just knew that he was teasing her about something, but everything was just a fog and... and why was he looking at her like that? Why did he suddenly seem so triumphant and so arrogant?

He lifted his hands again, ran his knuckles across her cheek, and Hermione could merely stare.

It wasn't fair.

And despite everything, he seemed perfectly _sane_ and -

"You've got a bit of dirt, right there, on your cheek."

Ron grinned at her, and stood completely still, allowing her to rub it off. It was funny, when Hermione thought about it, so she tried her hardest not to, and she vowed that she would try her hardest not to go near him again. Now that she _knew_ she could see the change in him - it was subtle, working it's way to the surface, but she could see it in his eyes, his mannerisms, the way he spoke. He was still friendly, he had proven that as soon as they both re-entered the Burrow. He had been charming, like he usually could be, but even then, something had been off. But now that she was alone with him, rubbing dirt smudges from his face, she could practically see the differences screaming out at her. Insane, they had said. Raving _mad_. But he wasn't, not really. No. Instead he was darker. Deadly. He _could_ be insane, but then it just didn't seem right. Ron was too _Ron_ to ever be insane, and it was rather naive of her to think so but...

"They said I could make you mine," Ron said quietly, gripping her hands tightly.

_Who are you talking about, Ron?_

His lips brushed against hers once again, and Hermione resisted the urge to tell him no, instead shifting closer to him.

"But I don't have to make you do anything."

Hermione focused on his dark, swirling eyes.

"They were right you know," Ron spoke softly, his voice dangerous, arrogant, but Hermione felt herself getting drawn further in, and Ron laughed, his warm, alcohol sweetened breath washing over her face. "I can make you do whatever I _want_."

The fear solidified, intensified, but he was kissing her roughly, and she was intoxicated once again.

_I won't stop, not again,_ he seemed to say as he shifted her against the wall, his hands gripping her tightly.

_I never asked you to,_ she answered back, losing herself in the fog.

He was rough, and it was delicious and pleasurable and painful all at once. He smelled of moist dirt, filthy snow, and sweet alcohol, and it caused her body to burn, just as intensely as before, and she stopped wondering what happened to _her_ Ron, instead attempting to focus through the fog that had suddenly descended upon her mind. It was cold and hot all at once, but the attack never relented, and she was glad for it. She had forgotten about the explosion of emotion that he always made her feel - the explosion of emotion that she used to hate to feel, but now, she was loving every minute of it. Because even if his mind forgot, his body had remembered, just as he said it would, just like hers was now, and she loved losing control. She wasn't safe any longer, not really, and she didn't really want to be, because everything was swirling around her, his breath was washing over his face, his hands were travelling over her thighs, and she _wanted him._ But then again, she had always wanted him, even when there had been _someone else_. She had prided herself on rationality, the ability to think things through, but sometimes, feeling was _so much better_ than thinking and -

The fog only grew thicker, colder, but Ron continued to cause little flames of pleasure to dance along her spine, causing the dread to dissipate. She loved every moment of it as he continued to move and taste and touch and -

When she listened carefully, through the fog, Hermione thought she could hear voices.

* * *

_**December 30th, 1999, 6:41 a.m.**_

The sun was barely rising by the time she finally awoke, and for that, she was glad.

Hermione's head felt as though it were about to explode, but her body was deliciously warm, and for a moment, she could remember everything over the pain. But then the agony increased tenfold, and Hermione buried her face into soft, earthy smelling pillow. Shock registered in her mind - hadn't Charlie's pillow smelled like cinnamon? - but she immediately dismissed the idea and tugged the blankets higher around her body. The chill was threatening to overwhelm her, and she wanted nothing more than to be warm, because with the cold, the pain would become more pronounced, and she wouldn't be able to _function_ properly and... what had happened again?

She could remember her argument with Harry... although, it wasn't _really_ an argument, more like a manipulation into confession, and for some reason, Hermione was oddly amused. It usually was Harry who needed to be manipulated into revealing his secrets, not the other way around, and before she realized it, Hermione found herself giggling. Well, at least she wouldn't need to reveal _this_ because as soon as Harry found out, he would hate her for the rest of eternity. They were engaged, weren't they? And if that was the case, then why hadn't she been intelligent enough to _rationalize, _and think everything out _logically_ before allowing him to kiss her? Why hadn't she pushed him away, instead of pushing closer to him? Why hadn't she told him _no, _instead of begging for him to continue?

Had she really been that naive? That disillusioned? The shame had already surfaced, the resentment was intensifying, and she was wishing that Harry would have been more understanding. She was wishing that she had been smart enough and strong enough to resist him... she had been, at one point. She had wanted nothing more than to run but... but she _hadn't_ and perhaps that was where she made her first mistake.

Regardless, it was still _her fault_, but it was a fault that she was going to keep to herself, no matter what. The only that anyone would be able to find out would be if Ron -

"Ron?" Hermione asked softly, shifting the covers up to her chin.

_Nothing._

"Of course," Hermione said just as softly, "why would he stay? He's _never_ stayed, Hermione. Surely you could have gotten used to _that_."

Hermione wanted to laugh at the irony, wanted to laugh at it badly, but instead, she merely pushed her bushy curls out of her face, wanting nothing more than a very hot shower. Shifting, she sat up straight in bed, and glanced around the room. The room was only lit with the light of the dawning sun, and purple and pink hues that were dancing across they sky were quite lovely. She wanted to sit there, wanted to stare out at the new morning, but a sense of urgency suddenly pooled in the pit of her belly, and she threw the covers off of her, and stood.

_Of course, he would leave me in nothing but his filthy t-shirt_, Hermione thought, irritated. She quickly snatched up his wand from his bedside table, and tried her hardest to ignore the dirt smudged shirt. She tried her hardest to sort through her mind, attempted her hardest to recall the spell that could help her transfigure her clothes... or, perhaps, she needed to change back into her nightgown. It _would_ be easier, after all, but the sense of dread accompanied by the pounding in her head had suitably distracted her, and all she could think about was _which spell was it?_

The panic was coursing even more fervently through her mind, and she had realized that there was _something_ preying on the edge of her mind, something that she _needed_ to remember and - which a very irritated flick of Ron's wand, she was in a pair of loose fitting trousers and a very plain black sweater.. It wasn't what she had wanted, but it was the best that she could do... apparently, Ron's wand was set to a certain distinct style - everyone would be _bound_ to notice but -

What was she missing?

Frowning, Hermione left Ron's room, closing the door behind her quietly. She could remember everything through the agony of her migraine - _oh, what was that spell again?_ Hermione thought, gripping Ron's wand even tighter - but she knew that there was something that she was missing. Was it when Ron had spoken to her? It had been definitely interesting, talking to him, because he wasn't, well, _Ron_ and she should have at least been a _little_ wary. But her mind hadn't been about her, and it was almost as though she had fallen under a spell and lost all perception of reality. Then again, Ron was practically _daring her_ to try and make him stop, and she had practically dared him _not_ to stop, so perhaps it was truly _her_ fault, because she should have taken him up on that challenge. But he had seemed so dangerous then, she felt as though she were about to drown in her own sweet, sticky fear, and it was something that he had devoured so _enthusiastically..._

_They were right you know... I can make you do whatever I want._

_Of course,_ Hermione bristled, rubbing her temples in agitation, _how did I miss that?_

There was really no one around, no one that he could talk to at least, except for his family, and Hermione doubted very much that his family would go around spouting random lines at him about possession, ambition, power, and greed. It was very unlikely, and yet, at the same time, who else could it have been? Was this his insanity? Fred and George did say something about him hearing voices or... speaking for them, was it? The fog that had settled in her mind seemed to want to take up residence there, for she couldn't even begin to rationalize her own thoughts. Couldn't even begin to sort them out.

If Ron _was_ speaking for the voices that he heard, whenever he whispered those tiny little snatches of conversations but... Mrs. Weasley almost _always_ gave him memory potions when he was backsliding and... was he falling even deeper into that unwanted pit of despair? Did his memories really cause his insanity to heighten, to become more pronounced? Ron had seemed, if anything, completely _sane_ that night, but the difference had been _drastic._ It was simply too out of character for him, and despite his extremely wavering nature... not that he ever wavered, he always knew what he wanted, but his moods were somewhat of a black mark on his... not so perfect record, if she were being honest. But how did his insanity factor into it?

_They usually sounded like you, you know. And Harry. But now... it doesn't make any sense, not anymore. I don't really get it._

He was... recalling them, then, whenever he began whispering to himself. It was the only thing Hermione could think of that made any sense, because although she _knew_ that he was insane, it didn't really make any sense. What was the point of giving him a memory potion, after all? It would just return to him, filter in through his dreams, and they would be things that Ron couldn't make any sense of it. But then the sleeping draught would heighten the effects of the memory potion and - _oh, Merlin, Hermione, think!_

Sixth year, N.E.W.T. level potions. Snape had told her... the sleeping draught made people sleep, obviously, but when the substance is combined with that of a potent memory potion, the ashwinder within the sleeping draught and the wormwood within a memory potion offset one another, causing a very dangerous chain reaction, making the potion similar to that of poison. But instead of poison that affected the body, it was one that affected the mind and - _of course,_ Hermione thought, _not lethal, not in the physical sense. The sleeping draught in turn ends up negating the effects of the memory potion, and instead of preventing memories, it causes you to dream of nothing _but_ memories, and can even destroy even the strongest of mental blocks, especially if one has suffered from a severe mental trauma. But regardless of whether chocolate _does _negate the effects of the two potions becoming lethal when mixed, it can still be mixed within the blood, and sometimes, when ones mind is in an incredibly weakened state, the recollection of memories can carry onto their conscious state, therefore becoming such a strain, that some might begin to act out the memories, believing themselves to be living within that memory once again._

"And if that's the case," Hermione murmured to herself, pausing in her spot at the kitchen door, "then there's the chance that the potions can actually mix and crystallize within the blood, which in turn will cause them to be long-acting, and the more the potions are administered, the more Ron will be forced to backslide into his insanity and be forced to relive traumatic memories. That in turn can cause him to become even _more_ unstable so... the twins did say something about Firewhiskey negating the effects of the potion, but if that's the case, then why does he still suffer from the backslide, even outside of the potions' influence?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed, and she pushed her curls out of her face, a distinct chill dancing up her spine. Frowning, she glanced up from her observation of the floor, and she started slightly.

"You know, Hermione, it's quite a bad habit, talking to yourself."

"Yes, someone would think you were completely bonkers, by the looks of it."

Hermione opened her mouth, paused, the snapped it shut, quickly. There was a strange sense of deja-vu, but instead of responding to it the same way that she responded to Ron, she merely smiled and nodded her head.

"I was _thinking,_" Hermione insisted, dusting invisible lint off of the boring black sweater she was wearing. The twins both noticed the nervous shift, and both of them lifted their eyebrows, but instead of pursuing whatever line of questioning that they _wanted_ to follow, they both turned back to one another and began whispering quietly.

Feeling somewhat annoyed and slightly put off, Hermione wandered around the kitchen, and started brewing some tea. It was really too early in the morning for tea, but as she waved Ron's wand - _oh, well, their behavior makes sense then_ - and started heating the water, she realized she was craving it, quite a bit. The taste of firewhiskey continued to dance on her tongue, like a very potent batch of Skelo-Gro, and Hermione resisted the urge to grimace. Although... it was very much more _pleasant_ than Skele-Gro, if Harry's reaction to it second year was any indication and -

_His mind,_ Hermione thought, her eyes widened. _The firewhiskey can break down the crystallization since it's in his blood, but he's so used to reliving the memories that it's affected his _mind, _which makes him think that he's still under the influence of the potions effects._

Hermione shifted uncomfortably as whispers filtered in through the fog that had suddenly settled over her mind and -

"Where's Ron?" She asked suddenly, frantically.

The twins both paused and stared at her, noticing the way her shoulders were tense and her expression closed off. But her voice was filled with urgency, with panic, they weren't oblivious enough as to not have heard _that,_ and they were both watching her rather _closely _and - _Oh, _Hermione thought, the panic swelling within her. _They know. They _know.

Fred licked his lips nervously. "Maybe you might want to... clean up a bit, you know-"

"-do something about those love bites. Really Fred, there's no need to be subtle. Our Ikkle Ronniekins and our ikkle Hermionekins are all grown up!"

She could hear the hostility in his voice, the utter disbelief, but Hermione merely shook her head, attempting to remember what she had heard. Distantly, she realized what they were telling her - _get rid of the evidence, you nitwit_ - and she was already moving out of the kitchen and up the stairs, towards the bathroom because... what had she _heard._ It wasn't until she heard Fred and George's whispers, after she was fully withdrawn from her fast-paced thinking patterns... it wasn't until after she finally realized that there was a build-up within his mind, one that the Firewhiskey couldn't reach and...

There had been whispers, whispers that weren't from either of them.

Hermione closed the door behind her and began stripping, barely remembering to flick Ron's wand to turn on the shower... She had thought that she was just going insane as well. That she was hearing them because she was caught in a state of euphoria... it had been _their voices, _hers and Ron's, not the voices of other people, intermingling with one another, just like their breaths mingled, whenever they kissed and breathed and - _too romantic, _Hermione thought disgustedly, _but that's not true._ Even through the pleasure, she could _remember_ that they never spoke a word, neither her nor Ron. That was why it had been so easy. They had been quiet lovers, doing nothing but feeling, and whenever Hermione thought she was going to scream, her throat closed up tightly, and she could only make a soft sigh of contentment but... even that wasn't possible, not _really_ because -

_Silencio._ The voices had whispered a spell, and the only time she had broken through the spell was after the pain in her lower abdomen has subsided because... Ron had been eerily silent as well, and although it was natural for _her_ to be quieter than most people he... Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously, and she leaned against the shower wall, attempting to balance herself.

The voices had said other things, too, but neither her nor Ron had ever spoken to one another, not after that last kiss, not before she first started hearing the whispers. She remembered, there had been one thing that had startled her more than anything, one thing that had caused her eyes to widen and actually _push away_ from him but... he had gotten angry then, and he had literally bruised her lips with his next kiss, and she had fallen into him, once again. But she could remember, as clear as day, what they had said, and the panic that she had felt earlier increased tenfold.

Quickly, she shut off the water, not bothering to dry herself off, and threw on the transfigured clothing, hating the way her soppy wet hair stuck to the back of her neck. Irritated, she slammed the door behind her, barely registering the fact that she was _still_ carrying Ron's wand, that Harry had entered the hall and was staring at her, very strangely indeed and -

"_What!_" She asked snappishly, causing Harry's eyes to darken.

"Nothing, Hermione, I just thought... well when you can out of the bathroom you were wearing and t-shirt and now you're... not, so I just... trick of the light and all that."

Hermione's eyes widened dramatically.

"Not a trick of the light, then?"

"You're not making any sense, Harry."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Of course, Hermione. But it's not like it matters. Where did you disappear to last night?"

"I got thirsty," Hermione answered, and moved to walk down the stairs. Harry paused, watching her retreating back, before following her down the stairs and into the kitchen. The twins were still sitting there, whispering to one another frantically, and Hermione was pleased to notice that the tea she had made earlier was already set down on the table. Irritated, she poured herself a cup, inhaling it's scent pleasantly, before taking a sip.

She could tell that Harry was annoyed by her answer, because he, too, picked up a glass and took a deep drink from it, not caring how it scorched his tongue. After a moment of silence, and a moment of the twins finally taking in their stiff postures, Harry pulled the teacup out of Hermione's hands and set it on the table. He looked at her, his emerald eyes dark and intense, and oh so very focused. He ran his fingers through his hair, and immediately, she was reminded of Ron and the way his fingers ran through _his_ wild red hair and -

"-not even listening."

"Pardon?"

Harry let out a frustrated sigh. "Don't worry about it Hermione, it's not all that important."

Hermione nodded, and once again, reached out for her cup. She felt too off-kilter, too out of sorts, and she knew that it showed. The twins watched her with an almost surprising clarity, like they were truly focusing on her as opposed to just _looking_ at her and - Ginny walked into the kitchen, and immediately made a beeline for the tea, giving Hermione and Harry a very curious glance.

It was enough to make Hermione pause and look at the younger girl, and she could just _tell_ that she knew something as well. The dread and panic was spiking painfully within her, and she forced herself to take another sip of her tea. The world was swirling around her, almost as though it were disappearing, so instead, she focused on the window, beyond it, out towards the beautiful, snow covered yard. She focused on the lake and the lone, naked tree besides it and - where was Ron? She knew that he wasn't an early riser but -

_We'll take back what's ours._

Hermione trembled.

_He belongs to us, you know, and you can't have him. Not anymore._

Her tea sloshed over the edge of her cup, the liquid burned her hands, and she slammed the cup down, shaking her head quickly.

_You can't protect him. Not from the darkness._

The distinct feeling of pain was rising within her, but all she could do was stare blankly out the window, the words repeating over and over again in her mind. It was nothing but dramatics, and Ron had made it seem that way, when he had hit her with that bruising kiss - _Only me, Hermione_ - and she had forgotten it so quickly but... the voices, they had _told_ her what she had feared.

_The madness will devour him, you know. It will shatter his soul._

But she could only stare, confused. She had seen the look of annoyance that had danced across his face. She had seen the way he glared at everything but her and cursed silently. She could see him _talking_, but they were words of anger, not words of arrogance, like the whispers were handing to her. But they had kept on whispering, not truly caring that he knew what they were telling her, not truly caring that he hated them, more than anything, within that moment. No, of course not. After all, they were _voices_, and as she she shouldn't have been _hearing_ them and -

_And he will be delivered through the darkness, in pieces._

But then, his hands had grabbed her, and he had kissed her so brutally...

_There will be no mercy in his death..._

So mocking... so frightening...

_We'll enjoy the taste of his blood, after we take back what's ours._

But they were already fading away, so easily, that it didn't really matter, not anymore.

_He belongs to us, and his soul will freeze within the depths of hell, as he devours life and enforces death. He is our child of darkness, you see, and we would like him back._

Merlin, please no, she had thought, let it all be a _lie._ Let it all be a figment of my imagination.

"Stop _listening_ to them, Hermione," Ron had hissed, and his hands were gripping her thighs tightly and - and she didn't hear them anymore, not after that. But now, as she stared out the window, she couldn't help but wonder what else they may have wanted to say. It was... frightening, knowing that the person she cared about most was... disappearing and - and it had to have been a lie. The way that he spoke... the whispered urgency... she knew that it had been a lie. It _had_ to have been a lie, because Ron had certainly refused to pay attention to it, instead, wanting all of her.

But the pain in her hands intensified, and she realized that everyone was staring at her, so she wandered over to the sink, turned on the water, and allowed the water to run over her hands, waited for it to soothe her burning agony.

It wasn't important, because despite whatever urgency she was feeling in that moment, Ron hadn't _left_ so -

"Where's Ron?" Harry asked out of the blue, causing Hermione to start, her eyes screwing shut.

Ginny gave her a strange look, before turning back towards her brothers and Harry, unaware of the fear that was radiating off of Hermione in waves.

"He might still be in his room," Ginny answered, taking another sip of her tea. "Has anyone checked?"

"We did," the twins answered, casting Hermione a furtive look. "Only he wasn't there."

"What about outside?"

"Nope."

"The cellar?"

"Nothing."

"So he's not here?"

"Nowhere," Fred answered darkly.

Hermione stumbled to her knees. Everyone turned their attention to her, each noticing the way she paled. Each noticing the way her body trembled and tears streamed down her face and - Harry moved closer to her, reaching out a hand to help her stand. She could feel the hysterical laughter bubbling beneath the surface, wanting to break free but... twice in two days was quite enough, and she was _tired_ of crying over things that just couldn't be helped and... _Such. An. Idiot._ Hermione berated herself, wiping the tears from her eyes. It was... not fair, but she had gotten used to the fact that nothing was _ever_ fair, not anymore.

"So he's missing?" Hermione asked quietly, her hands balled into tiny fists.

The twins nodded.

"Well," Ginny piped up. "Who was the last one to see him?"

"Me," Hermione answered quietly, looking towards the window. Ginny's brown eyes widened in mock surprise, Harry's in genuine surprise, and the twins merely exchanged a significant glance. "He was... drinking, right over there," Hermione pointed, noticing that the bottles of Firewhiskey had disappeared. "And he accused me of betraying him because I allowed that woman... sorry, Mrs. Weasley to give him potions."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Anything else?" He asked lightly.

Hermione's lips pursed, and she gave him the nastiest look she could muster, before turning towards the twins.

"There were..." she had wanted to say voices, but she knew that they would think she was going insane. "_People_ that said that they had to take him back."

"So... so he was kidnapped?"

"No," Hermione said quietly, hesitantly. "He went with them of his own free will."

"Do we have to worry, Hermione?" Harry asked, his concern for his friend overshadowing his suspicion.

"We should," Hermione responded, her eyes completely unfocused. "Because if we don't find him, they're going to kill him."

Ginny's teacup shattered on the floor.

* * *

_**December 30, 1999, 10:25 a.m.**_

Ginny Weasley always fancied herself a smart, intellectual girl.

It wasn't as though she were stupid. No, she was anything but stupid. Of course, when she was younger, she was forced to learn what it meant to truly trust people, and not to give it out too easily, not to trust people blindly. Of course, the older she became, the more that rule had to be reinforced, because she had an odd knack of trusting people with her feelings - Tom Riddle had been a prime example, and only five years after that, it had been Harry, and he, too, ended up throwing her trust back into her face, tearing her in two the way that Tom had.

Of course, she had been young and naive then, and by the time Harry finally got around to doing it, she had been smarter and stronger than she had been at the simple age of eleven but... but despite everything that had happened, she still cared for Harry, more than she should have, just the way that Ron still cared for Hermione. She knew that Weasleys were common for being over-emotional at times, Ron was testament to that, as was her mother, but it was just something that couldn't be helped. She was someone who felt extreme emotions as well.

An overabundance of love, especially, although she really did feel hate from time to time.

Her feelings of hate and dislike were usually centered around a certain group of blond aristocrats who believed that they were _better_ than everyone else, but for the first time in a long time, she felt that hate and dislike centered towards someone that she should have trusted... someone whom she had wanted to trust beyond all else, because, really, it had been that girl that had given her the advice that she needed in order to have Harry finally notice her. It hadn't been that short lived, not really, because she had only been seventeen when he finally ended it - _right after graduation_, she thought bitterly - and their relationship had lasted a little over a year and a half and yet...

She never had a reason to hate Hermione Granger, not until now.

It wasn't until she was bundled up in her scarves and marching down Diagon Alley, searching for... clues... information... when it hit her like a ton of bricks, causing her to pause in the middle of the large street, taking in a large gulp of freezing air.

She _hated_ her.

But not for Harry.

She had been annoyed at the revelation, had been annoyed that at nineteen, they were both ready for marriage, despite everything that was going on. Of course, Hermione _was_ nearing twenty, so she wasn't _too _young and... Ginny pursed her lips and glared. Yes, she was annoyed with it all. It bothered her immensely, knowing that Hermione had decided to start dating Harry only a couple months after she had broken up with Ron, only to get engaged a mere _four months_ after that... and it had been a mere five months since their engagement, and already, Hermione was drifting. It was funny, now that she thought about it, and although the thought irritated her, it was still quite fitting.

Only one moment of kissing Ron again - because she knew her brother rather well, and Ron just _wouldn't_ be able to resist - and Hermione was already forgetting that Harry even existed. It had caused Ginny to think Hermione was marrying Harry out of necessity but... Harry had really cared for her. And that had annoyed her, too, but then again, people couldn't control their emotions.

So she had been irritated with Hermione for being able to take the one person she truly cared about away from her. But she hadn't hated her, not really. It wasn't until Hermione had spoken those fateful words, had told them exactly _why_ he was missing, that the burning, aching resentment swelled within her, making her hate the girl.

If she were thinking rationally, which she was, she knew that it wasn't Hermione's fault. But the fact that Hermione didn't even attempt to stop those... people... from taking her brother away grated on her nerves in such a way that she could help but feel resentment towards her. It was bitter and disgusting and made her sick to her stomach, because Hermione really was the reason that she had felt what it was like to be in a fulfilling relationship... although, perhaps it had simply been that way for her, otherwise, Harry wouldn't have _left_ her and -

The annoyance spiked within her once again, and she frowned, glaring out at every passerby.

She never could understand why people thought it was necessary to go shopping again, just right after Christmas.

Tugging on her scarf, she glanced through the crowd, hoping to find where Harry and Hermione had disappeared to. It had been all five of them, searching for some sign, although she was really unsure as to why Harry had ordered them to search Diagon Alley. Both Hermione and Ginny had highly doubted that if people wanted to kill Ron, that they would do it in a public place, but then again... fear _is_ power... she had learned something useful from Tom, _after all_, even if it did make her feel ill and out of place.

Sighing, Ginny pushed all thoughts of her brother's imminent death out of her head, instead, choosing to ask around. It was possible that people could have seen him around, if they dragged him around Diagon Alley, that is, and it certainly wouldn't have hurt to ask. Pulling her cloak even tighter around herself, Ginny checked the clock tower in the middle of the square, barely registering that she had been standing in one place for about ten minutes, and walked off in the direction of Flourish and Blotts. It wasn't as though Ron would ever visit a book store voluntarily, and as out of place as it would have been, it was still better than doing _nothing_, so Ginny continued on her way over, knowing that she had to meet back at Gringotts by eleven.

The store was warm and the heat caused her fingers to prickle deliciously. Irritated at the sensation, she tugged her gloves off and shoved them into her pocket, before marching towards the register and asking for the owner of the store. The little pink-haired receptionist eyed her warily, before nodding, and wandered into the back of the store. A few moments later, a tall, elderly looking man wandered out, giving Ginny a kind and warm smile.

"Mrs. Weasley," he said kindly, and Ginny stifled a giggle.

"It's Ginny, sir. My mother isn't here today."

"My apologies, Miss Weasley. I'm so used to seeing Molly here, you see, and you look remarkably like her... so very lovely, indeed. Remind me of my granddaughter, you do."

"Sir? I've never seen her around or at Hogwarts, how old is she?"

"Oh, she wouldn't go to Hogwarts, my dear, for you see, she was born without magic. Although she is remarkably intelligent, and practically devours the reading material that I give her. Very intellectual, you know, and it's quite splendid."

Ginny allowed a small smile to cross her face at the man's reminiscing.

"Oh, but I'm quite sure that you didn't come here to reminisce about an old man's family. How may I help you, Miss Weasley?"

Ginny straightened and loosened her scarf, hating the way it was so warm in the bookshop. "I was wondering sir, if you've seen my brother, Ron, today."

Mr. Blotts eyes narrowed as he thought, using a grisly run through his snow white hair. "Ron... he's tall is he not? Always had a bit of dirt on his face... was friends with Harry Potter and Miss Hermione Granger?"

Ginny nodded.

"I'm sorry, my dear, but I've been here all morning - signing for inventory, you see - and I haven't see him. I'm sure Melissa hasn't seen him either... of course, I'm positive. I'm very sorry Miss Weasley. Perhaps you could check at Ollivanders... he has a much sharper eye than I do, I'm afraid... also a good opportunity to polish up your wand, you know."

Mr. Blotts turned around and walked away, muttering indistinctly, and Ginny sighed.

The pink-haired witch smiled at her, and gave a nonchalant little shrug, so Ginny left the bookstore once again, tightening her scarves and pulling on her gloves. At least Mr. Blotts had the right idea. Mr. Ollivander was plenty more attune to the on-goings of Diagon Alley, despite being a reclusive wandmaker. It seemed as though he knew _everything_ that was going on within the wizarding world, even things that the Ministry didn't - was he truly that neutral? Licking her lips, Ginny glanced at the clock tower - ten forty-five. Groaning, Ginny hurried towards Ollivanders and entered the little shop, loving how it was just as chilly as it was outside.

The bell above the door rang, signaling her arrival, and Mr. Ollivander entered the front room, giving the redhead a level look. His silver eyes were chilling, and always caused something to stir uneasily within the young lady. She had figured that he was a rather good Legilimens, once she had learned what one was, to have eyes_ that _penetrating. Of course, he never could really _see_ otherwise, she would recall her own memories, like the time, during a Potions class, when Snape was sneering at the Gryffindors for blowing up another cauldron, when really, it had been _Ginny's_ anger with the Slytherins that had caused her magic to run a bit rampant and cause their cauldron to blow up. It had been one look into her eyes, and Snape was deducting twenty points from Gryffindor, and the memory of their jeering at her, right before he had made it to class, the memory of her glaring at them when they sneered at her, the memory of her _willing_ the potions to explode was enough to accuse her of causing it, which, in fact, she had. So she knew what it was like, having her memories poked about it.

Ginny paused, then frowned, before diverting her attention back to the wand maker. He merely watched her, as though waiting, before coming out from behind his counter. Strangely, and much to Ginny's annoyance, he flipped the sign on his door and drew the shades, before motioning her back towards his storeroom.

"Mr. Ollivander?" Ginny asked as he led her through the shelves and shelves of wands. It was amazing, how many different combinations could be created, and Ginny wondered if two wands were ever alike.

"Ask the right question, Ms. Weasley, and you'll get the right answer. Ask the wrong question, and you'll be forever disappointed."

Ginny paused, her eyes widening as she looked passed the rows of wands, to see rows of parchment. It was rather... odd, now that she thought about it, but of course, the different combinations had to tested out first, certainly, otherwise...

"Indeed, Miss Weasley. The very art of wandmaking is a curious subject, one that takes patience and intelligence. Perhaps cunning, for you must first _acquire_ the cores, before they may be of any use, and their magical properties must be retained. Finding it can be rather difficult at first, but eventually, you'll find the perfect one. Sometimes, the perfect core may be broken, or it's element may be off, but it is still perfect, and it will still suit only _one_ witch or wizard, despite contrary beliefs."

If she knew what he was talking about, she didn't show it, but then again, she was extremely confused, regardless, and how is it that he knew what she was thinking about?

Mr. Ollivander stopped and looked at her, one thick, bushy silver eyebrow rising with what seemed to be amusement.

"I was... asking aloud, wasn't I?"

Ollivander nodded, before turning and continuing. "You are searching, Miss Weasley, for your brother."

Ginny paused as he opened a door in the very back of his shop.

"Perhaps, if you peak into the darkness, you may find what it is you are looking for."

Confused, Ginny nodded at him, slipping her hand into her robes for her wand. She never liked darkness much, not after blacking out first year and seeing nothing _but_ darkness. Not after the Department of Mysteries fiasco. Not after seventh year, when she had been locked in nothing but darkness, and almost tortured to the point of insanity. Although, Harry, Hermione, and Ron had all gotten her out of that, it was still something that frightened her, the darkness, but didn't he say to start looking for things in unsuspecting places? It certainly made sense, all the drivel he had spouted, and when she thought about it, her brother really _was_ missing part of his mind so... was that broken core Ron? And if it was only suited for one wizard... damn that old man for talking in riddles. Tom had done the same thing, too, pushing her around in circles, and it grated on her.

Annoyed, she stepped into the dark alleyway and whispered a quiet Lumos spell, thankful for the tiny bit of light. Third year... Dementors at Hogwarts - _you only have to remember to turn on the light_, or something to that effect - and it was comforting, now that she thought about it. Quietly, she crept into the darkness, barely aware of the fact that Ollivander had closed the door with a short and derisive "I'll open the door once you've found what you're looking for."

That man really was odd and creepy beyond all measure. Although, she knew that she could trust him, because, honestly, he was neutral, and if someone _was_ foolish enough to try to turn him - hadn't Dumbledore already failed miserably on that? It wasn't that he had tried to turn him, rather, it was the fact that he had asked for help and Ollivander had blatantly refused him. Dumbledore had bowed away gracefully, of course, and it was something that Ginny knew that she never would have been able to do - it was bad enough when Ron got the better of her in an argument and...

Ginny really, really resented Hermione Granger.

Tugging her scarf back around her neck, Ginny's eyes darted back and forth through the darkness quickly. She could feel the sweat beading on her brow as she realized just _where_ she was - seventh year had been _hell._ She knew that Voldemort had wanted nothing but revenge... Harry had destroyed part of his soul, after all, but it had been _Ginny's_ fault, really, because if she had been smart enough not to open the book, Voldemort wouldn't have chosen to... to _possess _her and -

"Oh Merlin," Ginny whispered, tearing at her scarf.

She could just feel the non-existent walls closing in on her, could feel the darkness growing darker and heavier and -

"Oh, _Merlin,_" Ginny wheezed. "Lumos. Lumos. _Lumos _you stupid wand. _LUMOS!_"

But the wand had already gone out, like someone had whispered an extremely powerful _Nox_ and... trembling, Ginny fell to her knees, her hands shaking and her breath coming out in quick, sharp gasps. She could already feel her tears welling in her eyes, stinging them, and for a moment, all she could see was the darkness, and it was choking her, and she desperately wanted to get out, to get away because...

Ginny tore at her scarf and threw it on the ground, the sweat dripping down her back. "_Lu... lu... lumos_," she wimpered quietly, her wand shaking in her hands.

"Merlin, not again," Ginny whispered, dropping her wand on the ground.

The darkness was resilient and quiet around her, though, and the panic that had started to bubble beneath the surface was increasing tenfold, and she could feel it washing over her as she curled into a tight ball, attempting to hide the darkness, attempting to shield herself from it. Her breath hitched and her chest began to burn painfully - - she screamed in her mind.

But even through the screaming in her mind, she thought she could hear - footsteps? Creaking? Shuffling?

Ginny froze.

Slowly, she lifted her tear stained face up towards the darkness and listened as hard as she could - step, step, creak. Step, step, creak. Step, step, scrape. Ginny's eyes darted around her frantically as she tried to figure out which way it was coming from... there was a definite pattern, and if she found out just _where_ they were, she knew that she could give herself enough _time_ and -

Hadn't Harry told her that time was relative?

It didn't matter, at least, not where she had been seventh year. It was almost as though she had stepped into a nightmare... Ginny strictly remembered laying down in her bed, tired from studying, once again and she had dreamt about turtles and broken wands and shattered glass. The Weird Sisters had been in her dreams, too, and they had been hanging upside down from the ceiling in her bedroom, singing about death and claustrophia and the cutting of flesh with razors and - Ginny's stomach churned unpleasantly. It was during their morbid and slightly disturbing singing that she had punched her hand through the window, and even in her dream, she had felt the painful, throbbing ache as glass dug into her pretty little knuckles but then the turtle had appeared, and it was completely and utterly _dead_. The Weird Sisters had laughed then, their gravelly voices causing Ginny to wince in displeasure and - step, step creak.

The panic was threatening to rise in Ginny once again, and she pressed her hands against the floor, her fingers digging into the groves of the hardwood floor.

_Still inside,_ she thought frantically, and shifted her hands, attempting to find her wand. Whatever was there in the darkness, it was getting closer, and she could hear its foot scrape against the floor - a limp, most likely. Or pain. So... a wound? Of course, that had to be it. Six complete steps before the pain overwhelmed him completely, forcing him to drag his feet, so... but then that meant that every third floorboard had to be defective and - she hadn't seen walls when she first entered. But then again Ollivander had said - "I'll open the door once you've found what you're looking for" - and she was looking for -

Ginny gasped, her eyes wide and immediately, she surged to her feet, her arms trembling as she held her hands out in front of her.

The darkness was so frightening, the seclusion so terrifying, and she could only hope that Ollivander wouldn't _purposely_ put her into danger and - "Ron?" she called, unsure. "Ron, if you're here, answer me. It's Ginny, Ron."

She waited, her arms still trembling, and took a hesitant step forward. The floorboard creaked beneath her feet, and she felt her wand clatter against the toe of her shoe - _don't pick it up,_ she thought, _otherwise whatever is in here will catch you_ - and her heart rate sped up just a little bit more.

She wanted to whisper a Lumos spell, wanted to desperately, but something within her was keeping her silent. Something was telling her, begging her, to only call for Ron because... Ollivander _told_ her what to look for. Ollivander had told her to stay until she could find her brother, and she was going to. She wouldn't move, she wouldn't run, she wouldn't attempt to find the door that led out of the dark, horrific cavern. No. She was going to stay, and she was going to stand and she was going to prove to whomever was taunting her that she wasn't afraid of the dark, not anymore. Because even though she _was_, she could feel the fear receding as she thought only of her brother, as she thought about how he might _die_ because Hermione had been stupid enough to... to let him _go._

In that instance, her dislike for Hermione flared violently, and almost as violently, the tip of her wand ignited, and Ginny was _blinded._

Ginny threw her hands up in front of her face, clenched her eyes together tightly, and waited for the lights to stop dancing in front of her eyes.

"Hello, little girl," someone whispered. She could hear it moving, shifting all around her, but she couldn't bring herself to open her eyes, not yet, because she knew that what she would see in front of her would only be her greatest fear - _letmeoutletmeoutletmeout_! - and she knew that she wouldn't be able to handle it, not now, when she was at her most vulnerable. Her weakest. _So close to death._

"Frightened? Ah, but of course you are," the voice said, sounding deceptively soft. Fingers brushed against Ginny's cheek, and she clenched her eyes together tightly. "All Weasleys have the tendency to be afraid of the dark."

Ginny's eyes snapped open, her heart hammering in fear.

A second later, she ran.

* * *

_**December 30th, 1999, 11:10 p.m.**_

The chill nipped at Hermione, and it was all she could do to not be annoyed. She and Harry had waited - for what, she wasn't entirely sure - but after searching Diagon Alley for the better part of the morning, they finally decided to retire to Gringotts and wait for Ginny's arrival. However, only a moment after the clock struck eleven ten in the morning, Hermione could tell that Harry was already beginning to worry, after all, it was _Ginny_ and no matter what anyone thought, they were still friends, and she could tell he was regretting, having split up with her. But then again, Fred and George were supposed to have stayed with her as well, if she remembered correctly, so in a sense, it was _their_ fault, and in no way hers although... well, that was certainly debatable.

Snuggling deeper into her scarf, Hermione shoved her hands into her pocket, and continued to peer around the square, ignoring the irate look the Goblins continued to give her. It didn't really matter, not now in the least, and it was all Hermione could do to wish that people didn't find it so necessary to go shopping _right after Christmas._ Huffing, she adjusted her jacket and gave Harry a look - he had been extremely quiet the entire time, allowing Hermione to drag him around and do all of the talking. _Really,_ Hermione though, a bit annoyed, _it's as though he doesn't even care._ But that thought caused Hermione to feel immediately regretful, and she gave Harry an apologetic glance. Of course he cared. He just _had_ to care. And if he didn't... well, Hermione knew that it would have been her fault entirely.

Once again the doubt and the remorse started to worm its way into Hermione's chest, but she immediately ignored it and glanced at Harry, brushing a hand across his shoulder. He looked at her then, his gaze blank and unreadable, and she could just tell that his thoughts were wondering the same path that hers were. Now would have been as a good a time as any to question her, but instead, he remained dutifully silent, merely watching her. Contemplating.

Hermione always hated the way that Harry thought. His gaze was always too intense, too uncaring.

It made her want to hit him.

Shifting away from him again, Hermione turned out to gaze at the crowd, wishing that she could discern the shock of fiery red hair against the sea of maroons and greens and -

_Blond._

"Merlin," Hermione heard Harry mutter. "Not _now._"

Straightening, Harry was immediately at Hermione's side, his fingers wrapped around hers as the blond's silver eyes flickered over them, causing him to stop mid-stride. He paused for a moment, glancing around, before he continued to amble up the steps, his lips twisting into the most unpleasant of sneers. Hermione could feel Harry tensing next to her, and for a moment, she wished that he could have just _stopped_ being so self-conscious whenever it came to Malfoy, but _of course_ he wouldn't, because it was Harry, and he was Malfoy. That was all the explanation that they ever needed, and it annoyed Hermione to no end that these useless squabbles and childish jibes still hadn't ended. But in the same token, it made everything _better_ because it brought her back to some semblance of normality - there was no insanity, no misunderstandings, no madness, no disappearing Ron or Ginny or... Hermione shifted, leaning uncomfortably into Harry.

The feeling of dread that had suddenly descended upon her at Malfoy's arrival certainly wasn't letting up any, and she was positively sure that it wouldn't. Malfoy always made her feel uneasy, making her think of her _inferiority_, when, really, there was none but... well, the taunts and jeers were still stuck inside of Hermione's head, and she knew it would take a lifetime for her to forget it.

"Granger," he said, almost cordially, tipping his head in her direction. He paused for a moment, his eyes drifting to their clasped hands before jumping back up to meet Hermione's eyes. There was something there that made Hermione feel distinctly uncomfortable, as though he _knew_ something that he definitely wasn't _supposed_ to know, but then, his eyes snapped to Harry, and his sneer increased tenfold. "_Potter._"

"_Malfoy,_" Harry retorted in that same acidic tone.

Malfoy clucked his tongue in mock disappointment. "Such manners. And here I was hoping that you would finally learn to speak properly to your superiors."

"What do you want Malfoy?" Hermione sighed, tossing her bushy curls out of her face. Malfoy gave her a cold, scrutinizing look, before shrugging nonchalantly.

"Heard you lost some Weasleys. Just thought I'd let you know, _Granger_-" Both Harry and Hermione could tell, almost at once, that he was desperately wanting to call her a mudblood. "- Even a pathetic excuse for a Pureblood would have been better than a half-blood with a mudblood whore for a mother."

"_Shove off, Malfoy,_" Harry hissed, his hand clenching Hermione's fingers tightly. Hermione wanted to wince at the pain, almost did, but at the sight of Malfoy's disgustingly superior and all-knowing smirk, Hermione remained silent, instead choosing to glare at the pureblood, before he finally gave them a mock salute and sauntered away, off towards the direction of Knockturn Alley.

Harry released her hand so fast, it was as though he were burned.

"Bloody _bastard_," Harry bit out. "Heard you lost some Weasleys, Potter. Wanted to let you know that I'm still an arrogant git, Potter. Still wanted to let you know that the Dark Lord's going to destroy you, Potter. Stupid, stupid, _stupid._"

Hermione sighed. "Just forget it Harry. It's not worth it."

Harry glared, and Hermione sighed in annoyance, turning away from him. She was really, really going to have to apologize to him sometime soon and hope upon hope that he would forgive her, otherwise, Harry would continue to give her the cold shoulder, no matter what she tried to do and -

Almost rudely, someone clothed in nothing but black shoved passed her, causing her to stumble. Harry immediately reached out to grasp at her, but instead of shooting the passerby an angry retort like he usually did, he merely righted Hermione, his gaze unreadable, once again. Hermione was really beginning to hate this closed off, mess-with-me-and-die type Harry. Idly, she shifted her scarf around her neck _again_, and if she snuggled into it deep enough, she could almost smell the hot burning scent of alcohol lingering pleasantly around her. Along with the wondrous scent of burning wood and people's screams and -

Hermione's eyes snapped open.

"Hermione get down!"

Hermione didn't have to be told twice; before she even realized what she was doing, she threw herself to the ground and withdrew her wand automatically, clutching it in her cold, numb fingers. Quickly, Hermione pushed herself to her feet, only to feel Harry slam himself into her body once again and press her to the ground, his fingers digging roughly into her sides as he tucked her head under his chin, trying his best to shield her.

The air was cold and burning as she breathed it in, trying her hardest to cause the wave of dizziness that suddenly washed over to her to disappear - she could see people running around frantically, attempting to escape the blasts - jets of green and black and red were shooting everywhere, and before she even took notice of what was _really_ going on, she saw the faint flash of red...

"Ginny!" Hermione and Harry both yelled at the same time, scrambling to their feet.

Ginny's head whipped around, her eyes red and puffy and _wide_, and Hermione could see her mouth opening and closing at she attempted to say something - _anything_ - but before she had a chance to form a single coherent thought, a group of cloaked black figures swarmed around her, pinching and pulling and _tugging_ at her and -

As soon as it all started, an eerie sort of calm settled over the square as people stared in morbid fascination where the group of Death Eaters once stood, as though unable to believe it.

They were gone.

And so was Ginny.

But that wasn't what had caused Hermione or Harry's sudden stop in motion. It wasn't what caused an irreparable grief to suddenly swell in Hermione's chest, causing her to feel sad and angry and guilty and hollow all at once. It wasn't what caused Harry's body to slump against hers, suddenly devoid of energy, his eyes strangely dark and empty. Because although Hermione knew she couldn't possibly be feeling what Harry felt, that same sense of anger and betrayal had still swept through her body, and her fists were already clenched at her sides, and despite the fact that the sorrow was almost overwhelming, the anger was _overflowing_ and - _how dare they,_ Hermione thought furiously, wrapping her arm around Harry's waist as his head fell to rest on his shoulders, his face suddenly tired and disbelieving. _How _dare_ those bloody bastards take her away from us._

"_Hermione_?"

Harry's voice was quiet, and not an ounce of emotion was showing through. But she could understand it, or, at least, she thought she could, because regardless of what Ginny thought of _her_, she knew that she loved Ginny like her own sister, and she would have done _anything_ to stop what had happened from happening. She would have done _anything_ to keep herself from seeing what she saw - absolutely _anything._ But Harry was gripping her tightly, almost desperately, so she turned to him, wrapping her arms around him more tightly, hating the fact that he had to see that. Hating the fact that they had lost yet _another_ Weasley, and although Percy had been the first, it hadn't hurt, not nearly as much or Ron or Ginny had and... Harry pressed his cold cheek against hers, and he stared out across the crowd, ignoring the extreme disquiet that was still settled over the square.

"Yes?"

"Did you - I mean - you... you saw it, right?"

Hermione pressed a kiss to Harry's shoulder.

Slowly, as though he were being pulled down by an invisible force, Harry's knees connected with the ground, and he could only stare blankly, not wanting to believe Hermione's silence. But he knew that she had seen it, just as much as he had seen it, and without really noticing, Harry's fingers dug deliciously into her side, causing Hermione to press closer to him. His breath was nice and warm against her cold cheek, his fingers bruising, and as much as Hermione wanted to say something, _anything_ to appease Harry, she knew that she _couldn't_ because he would hate her even _more._

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered anyways, and Harry jerked against her, his breath hitching.

"_No,_" he bit out, suddenly furious. "I don't... I can't... _Ginny._"

The betrayal was deliciously hot as it coiled in the pit of Hermione's stomach, and Hermione merely rested her head against Harry's shoulder, feeling his breath as it came out in tiny little puffs.

"I don't want to believe it," Harry said, hysterical laughter staining his voice. "I don't want to believe it. But it was there, Hermione, clear as day, burning... bloody hell, Hermione, it was _burning._"

Hermione only nodded, because there was nothing else to do. Because she had seen it, too, and it had caused a flood of emotions to suddenly spill through her, making her want to cry and laugh and kill all at once. Because Fred and George hadn't been there, and they hadn't protected her the way that _they_ were supposed to. Because...

Because burning deliciously hot on Ginny's once beautifully freckled skin was none other than the Dark Mark.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione whispered again.

But Harry jerked away from her, angry, and it was all Hermione could do not to hate him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Speak Softly (3/?)

**Summary: **War is reason for insanity, and in the face of danger, insanity can be inescapable. This is a series of vignettes chronicling Ron's, Hermione's, and Harry's lives during the final stretch of the war.

**Genre: **AU, angst, drama, tragedy, horror, post-Hogwarts, pre-HBP (with some elements of HBP added for just a touch of flavor)

**Pairing: **Ron/Hermione, Harry/Hermione

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter

**Note:** I have taken some… artistic liberties with a certain section of this story. It is going to play a huge role throughout the rest of this story, however, this is the only time that I will twist what I know about the subject to fit my story.

**Edited 6/29/2010: **Minor spelling and formatting errors have been corrected.

* * *

_**January 12, 2000, 3:02 p.m.**_

Diagon Alley was just as busy as it had been before.

Harry hadn't been surprised, not really, when they walked through the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron and were forced to stumble through the throngs of people. Whenever he pushed through them, he could feel their gazes, questioning, frightful, but it didn't really matter, not anymore. Hermione had trailed after him, oddly silent and contemplative. She had been that way ever since they had seen Ginny disappear with all of those Death Eaters—if truth be told, Harry had been just as silent. Ever since then, they had searched and searched and _searched_—and yet, it still didn't seem to make a difference. They had continued to push through the crowd, visiting this shop and that, and for a brief moment, the feeling of gold slipping out of his hand and into one that was much prettier than his—a sick, almost twisted feeling coursed through him, and he had been forced to turn away, forced to figure out what it was he was really there for.

It was all Order business, was _always_ Order business, and for a brief, delirious moment, Harry felt disgusted.

But then, there was nothing that he could really do.

Hermione's hand had been warm in his at first, but when she had disappeared into Flourish and Blotts for a quick moment, only to return looking harried and harassed, refusing to look at him, Harry knew that something was wrong. Her demeanor had been warmer that morning, warmer than it had been in the past weeks, but for some reason as soon as she had stepped out of that book store, a new Charms book in her hands and a strange boring package resting neatly beneath it, she had been nothing but cold. She had snapped at him, as she did when she was agitated, and tiredly, Harry allowed her to ignore him. But as they continued to push their way towards Weasleys' Wizards Wheezes, Harry couldn't help but wonder what had caused Hermione to become so irritated. Flourish and Blotts used to be a safe haven for Hermione—she used to love it. Her love for the store seemed to increase tenfold when Gilderoy Lockhart had appeared there, offering Harry a chance to be featured in one of his articles. It had been twice as hard for Hermione to accept the fact that her hero and crush hadn't been the most… capable of wizards, but all the same, the love that she had felt for the bookstore had remained just as prevalent as it was the day she ran into Lockhart.

But this time—this time it had been a different story.

"I never want to set foot inside that vile place again," Hermione muttered, shooting the store a disgusting look.

It was certainly something that made Harry curious, something that made him itch to ask Hermione what had happened, but then, he remembered how Hermione's business was hers alone. He remembered what it felt like to be on the receiving end of Hermione's scorn, and although he loved the way Hermione's lips pressed together tightly when she was angry, although he loved the way her eyes narrowed, and a fire seemed to flash behind her eyes—he didn't remember what it was that had suddenly made Hermione seem so beautiful to him. When he was in school, he had seen her as his friend, but he had never thought of her as beautiful. He had simply seen her as Hermione, his best friend, who was a bookworm, a know-it-all, and at times, unbearably annoying. He had _never_ fancied her in school, had never thought once to look at her as anything other than his friend. Instead, it had been Cho. Instead, it had been Ginny. But then, so shortly after seventh year he had… frowning, Harry continued through the crowd, passing Gringotts and giving one of the goblins (who had a strangely colorful pink and blue teacosy adorning his head) an odd look.

He had seen her crying.

He had seen Hermione cry before, had seen her angry and flush with embarrassment. But that time… that time it had been different. Instead of wanting to turn away and go hide like he had when Cho had cried, he had moved towards her, had tried to comfort her. But she had pushed him away, the way that she had pushed _everyone_ away… Hermione was always trying to do everything on her own, always out to prove everyone else wrong.

Harry hadn't let her.

He knew what had happened between Hermione and Ron. He knew that their argument had been brutal and agonizing. He knew that it had to have been hard, dealing with it, because when Ron was angry, he could be just as brutal and as agonizingly cruel as Snape could be. Hermione had her moments of cruelty as well, if Viktor Krum and her continual communication to him was any indication. Sighing loudly, Harry looked back at her. Even now, he cared for her. It burned brightly within him, angry and fierce, but there had been no demons, no little monsters roaring viciously whenever Ron came near her. It had been that way with Ginny, but instead the fierce determination, it was desperation instead. It had been white hot, _blinding_, and the first time he kissed her, it had morphed into something violent, painful. He knew that she had sensed it, but at the same time, they both wanted it _so much_… the attraction had morphed into a deliciously sensual lust, one that seemed to coil painfully in the pit of his stomach, and one that coursed through his veins, freezing his every limb. He didn't know what had made him want to marry her either, but whenever he saw her buried deep inside a book, looking over charts and runes, trying to convince other people that their side was the _right side_—Hermione had this wonderful ability to look beautiful, even when she looked despairingly tired, and Harry wondered how he hadn't seen it before.

Weasleys' Wizards Wheezes was just as delightful as it had been when he first arrived there. He could see trinkets zooming around, over the heads of children, could see the children shrieking in delight, laughing boisterously. He had been like that once, but as he stared, it was almost as though it had been in another life. Hermione was stiff beside him, staring into the happy, chaotic building that was created by Fred and George. Her eyes seemed oddly empty, which was the way it had always been whenever she came there—there were no happy memories tied to this place, no fun, no childish fantasies. Her breathing seemed even, but her shoulders were hitched, and her gaze was vacant. Harry felt something tight in the area of his throat, and almost mechanically, he reached towards her. Her skin was soft, but cold, and at his touch, Hermione jerked almost imperceptibly.

"What?" Hermione snapped, her eyes narrowed into tiny slits.

"Nothing," Harry lied, a small smile playing about his lips. "I love it when you do that."

Hermione blinked, unsure.

"Harry, what are you talking about?"

"You know, you get this sad, painful look on your face. It kind of reminds me of my Aunt Petunia. She would do the same thing whenever she thought of my Mum, especially when people weren't looking. You know, that look you get when you realize you miss that person you thought you hated so much, you can't help but question whether or not the life you're leading is the right, especially since they're not in it." The fake affection in his voice was not lost on Hermione.

Hermione eyed him coolly. "There's no need for you take that tone with me," she said tightly.

Harry's eyes followed her stiff movements as she pushed her frizzy curls out of her face.

"Hermione," Harry ground out, shoving his hands into his pocket. "I—er—damn it."

Hermione turned away, leaning against the window glass. Her eyes were darting back and forth, looking over this person and that. Harry turned back towards the crowd, watching as they walked passed, some dunking into the joke shop, and others turning away, moving towards more serious shops, as though there was actually something that was more important than pretending that life was going to be all right. Harry could tell that she was frustrated, that she wanted nothing more than to step away from this shop, especially since it brought up such bad memories. Frowning in annoyance, Harry gripped his wand at the waist band of his pants, wishing that he_ hadn't_ decided to call her out, but… but there was nothing for it. It continued to bother him; even now that Ron was gone. He knew that she felt as though it was her fault and her fault alone. He knew that there were things about that night that she wouldn't tell him, knew that she had wished for some way to change whatever had happened. She bounced back ridiculously fast, telling herself one lie or another, and yet… and yet—

Harry always hated waiting for her to come to her senses.

Growling in frustration, Harry brushed his hair out of his eyes, and glared angrily at Hermione.

"_Look_," Hermione started, huffing in frustration. "Don't worry about it, Harry. We have more important things to—"

Harry kissed her.

It was always a new experience, kissing Hermione. It wasn't the same as kissing Cho, nor was it the same as kissing Ginny. It wasn't soft, the way Cho had been; it wasn't fierce and alive, not the way Ginny had always been. Instead, it was inquisitive, as though there was always something new to learn, something that hadn't been discovered yet. Harry had found it odd, especially when he had kissed her for the first time. They had stared at each other, as though they had never seen one another before. Hermione hadn't known, hadn't realized that Harry had even felt the stirrings of attraction towards her, and she had snapped at him prudishly, as though his kiss was something inappropriate. But then he had kissed her again, had gripped her hair just so, and she had melted into him. It was strange at first, the way she seemed to tremble the second that his fingers laced through her bushy hair, but instead of paying attention to it, he continued to kiss her and kiss her and kiss her and _kiss her_—

"Merlin," Hermione whispered a second later. "_Harry._"

It had only been a month after that first kiss when Hermione finally gave herself to him completely. It had been awkward and funny, something that Harry never thought he would experience in his life. He had felt imperfect next to her, with his long, skinny limbs, and his malnourished body. Hermione had seemed full and lush and beautiful, but he couldn't find it in himself to tell her something so embarrassingly juvenile. Instead, he had touched her and tasted her and—something had been different, that first time. He had felt oddly empty, oddly devoid of anything afterward, but then he had seen her wander into his kitchen, wearing nothing but one of his old t-shirts, with her hair sticking out in every different direction, and it was as though something painfully pleasurable had slid into place. Hermione had looked just as awkward as he had when it was all said and done, but then he had kissed her, she had kissed him, and her skin was so wondrously soft and pale and—

"Ten galleons say Harry will swallow her face, first."

"Nah, Hermione's got in the bag. See how she's pulling _him_ towards—"

"Oi," Harry said, glaring. "Knock it off."

Fred and George grinned.

"Well, it's nice to know you understand the fine art of snogging, but if you're _that_ desperate, you could always rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron."

Hermione flushed furiously. "How completely—"

"Oh, don't try to deny it," Fred said suddenly. "Your hands were practically ripping his pants—"

"I think," Harry said loudly, his face bright red. "That we should go inside and decide what we're going to do about your brother and sister."

Fred and George sobered up immediately, and Hermione gave Harry a thankful look. Harry shrugged, knowing that it was what they were there for in the first place, and slowly, he walked inside, leaving Hermione to wait by the window, the color in her face slowly diminishing. It was embarrassing, being caught by Fred and George while he was kissing Hermione. It had been just as embarrassing when Ron had walked in on Harry when he was snogging Ginny. He wasn't one for public displays of affection, and he didn't fancy being looked at as though he were doing something indecent. Fred and George made sport of it whenever they could, but he knew that it still made Hermione uncomfortable, especially after she had left Ron. It was something that everyone expected, Ron and Hermione together, and they had lived up to that expectation. But something had gone wrong, something that even now, Harry didn't know about, but he hadn't bothered to learn it. Hermione hadn't asked him why he had broken up with Ginny, or why he had decided to love her, and it was a comfort that they shared with one another. But seeing Fred and George, seeing their red hair and their giant grins suddenly disappear into an insipid, sober line of despair was a painful reminder of what used to be, and the innate comfort that they felt before had suddenly vanished. At least, that was how Harry had felt.

The inside of the shop was just as chaotic as it always was. Children were crowding around each other, trying to see what new inventions the twins brought to the shelves. Mothers and fathers were waiting warily near the entrance of the shop, dreading the moment their child actually found something to take home with them. Harry grinned at the sight, loving the fact that he had been a part of this. Tinsel was still hanging from the ceiling, singing merrily, mistletoe was floating above the heads of the children, and whenever a parent became too exasperated, the mistletoe dive bombed them. The gnomes that Harry recognized from the gardens were there, too, singing boisterously, but looking as though they had smelled a particularly bad batch of Stinksap.

Harry grinned.

Fred and George had always been a bit over the top.

Together, the three of them ambled up to the counter, Harry sitting down on a large box of… well, Harry wasn't sure, but he had long ago decided not to question what Fred and George put on the shelves. Feeling nostalgic, Harry snatched up a box of Canary Creams and shoved it into his pocket. George arched an eyebrow, but Harry merely shrugged as Fred sat down behind the counter.

"So," George started, batting the tinsel away from his head. "What have you found out?"

"Nothing, really," Harry answered as the mistletoe dangled in front of him, glaring impatiently. "What's with all the Christmas decorations?"

Fred shrugged. "Lee thinks we shouldn't take it down until February. You know, and then we can put up the Valentine's Day decorations."

"If Hermione is ever forced into this place, she'd have a conniption fit."

Fred leaned back on his stool, and eyed the chatting children in the corner as they picked up a batch of their Peruvian Darkness Powder.

"Guess it's a good thing she doesn't come then, isn't it?"

George coughed loudly.

Harry frowned, and quickly took a red and green licorice wand out of the jar that was sitting on the counter.

"Why is she—"

"We've spoke to Dung," Fred interrupted suddenly. "And he says that some of his friends have been searching the Underground, but he claims— ah, _Finite Incantatum_—that no one has heard anything about You-Know-Who getting a hold of some new hostages. You know, before Ron disappeared, there was this—two sickles, thanks—murder. It was all over the Daily Prophet, some murder… um, you remember that one pompous bloke, Zacharias Smith?"

Harry's eyes widened in surprise.

"Susan Bones, too," George added, nibbling on a licorice wand. "Found in a forest."

Harry frowned, giving the twins a careful, guarded look. They had seemed so entirely nonchalant about the entire ordeal, so nonchalant, in fact, that it made Harry nervous. Of course, he knew that they couldn't discuss anything openly in a shop full of shrieking kids and shrilly mothers, but all the same… Harry glanced down at the licorice wand and bit into it fiercely, wanting to focus on something other than the uneasy feeling mounting inside of him.

"So they've been—"

"—offed? Yeah. Can't say I feel sorry though," Fred continued, causing George to shift uncomfortably. "Zacharias Smith was prat."

Harry turned away, knowing Fred was lying.

"Susan Bones was pretty though; always looked a bit peaky, especially after her Aunt… what was her name, Amelia Bones, was it?" When George nodded solemnly, Fred grinned at Harry and slapped him across the back of the head his with wand. "While I am speaking, you'd do well to listen."

Harry eyed him curiously. "You know, if it weren't for the glaringly obvious fake brightness you're exuding, I'd say that you sounded a bit like Snape."

Fred pulled a face, and George turned away.

Outside, Harry could see Hermione shifting impatiently. Sighing reluctantly, he turned back towards the twins, towards the conversation at hand, and was displeased to find that Fred was heckling George, a large, goofy grin on his face. _What_ was with these two? Didn't they ever find it necessary to actually _act_ like they could be serious? It was different, when Mr. Weasley had been on the brink of death. And when Ron had disappeared, their cheery countenance had wavered. It had been the same when Ginny had disappeared the very same morning—they had been fearful, guilty, but as the days passed, Fred and George continued to slip back into what they used to be… well, Fred did. George seemed just as solemn and quiet, and Harry knew that something was niggling at the edges of his mind, making him apprehensive. He had half a mind to ask him what was bothering him, but then Fred turned that devilish grin towards him, and flung his arms around his shoulders.

"I'll have you know," Fred said conspiratorially, "that George and I got our best ideas from Professor Snape. We wouldn't have had made nearly as much money off of Love Potions if it weren't for him."

"You're actually giving that greasy git credit?" Harry asked. "If Ron heard you say that, he'd go bonkers."

Fred froze, his arms still dangling awkwardly around Harry's thin shoulders.

George was watching them both carefully, as though he had seen some subtle transgression between the two. Harry felt a bit uncomfortable, and after a second, he slid forward, dislodging himself from Fred's friendly embrace. George arched an eyebrow at that, one that was contemplative and that made Harry extremely discontent, but one glance towards the entrance of their joke shop, one glance of Hermione, with her bushy hair, and her annoyed, impatient movements as she tugged her scarf more securely around her neck—it had comforted him. Twisting around, he glanced at all the children, all of the harried parents, towards Fred and George, and something wicked seemed to slide into place.

_Who cares?_

He felt guilty at first. He had invoked the unwanted memory on his friend, but now… now it hardly mattered. Now it was already down. Feeling reserved and completely off kilter, Harry pulled his wand out of his pocket, along with box of Canary Creams that he had nicked, and began casting useless charms on it. Some of the pastries stood up and started dancing, others sang loudly, and one even grew feathers and started screaming at Harry at the top of his lungs. Some of the kids glanced his way, but instead of looking at them in annoyance, he ignored them out flat, and gave the giant mass of feathers a dark, searing look, before silencing them with a quick spell.

"Are you finished stalling?" Harry asked in a decidedly Hermione-like manner when Fred arms fell limply to his side.

"Yeah," Fred answered, licking his lips. "I… yes, I am."

"Good. _Muffliato,_" Harry murmured, watching as the children pranced around the shop happily.

"I think I might know of some way to find them," Harry said calmly, his shoulders tensing at the way George's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"What's the plan?" Fred asked carefully.

"Er—well—you see, therein lies the problem. I don't really have a plan. Just—er—a feeling."

"A feeling?" George asked incredulously. "Are you off your rocker?"

"Snape's been telling me for the past—"

"Oh, enough with the greasy git," Fred bit out reproachfully.

Harry nodded obediently.

"How do you think you can find them?" George asked, still a bit skeptical.

"Death Eaters."

Fred snorted. "We've already established the fact that Death Eaters kidnapped Ginny that day in Diagon Alley, and that they most likely kidnapped Ron as well. Try to tell us something we _don't_ know."

A brief silence met Fred's sarcastic remark, and it was all he could do not to eye Harry curiously. It was something that hit him, like a sharp pain in his chest, and almost at once, Fred was leaning back in his chair, watching as an exasperated set of parents finally gripped their children by their collars and forcibly dragged them out of them out of the shop.

As the bell tingled over the departing costumers' heads, Harry looked around the shop once again. There was something oddly focused about his gaze, about the way that he suddenly took in every nook and cranny of the store. He knew what it was he was looking at, knew where every individual item was placed, and a second later, he was refocusing his gaze back on the twins, his green eyes so fierce and penetrating… George leaned away from Harry, hating the intensity of it. Fred merely glanced over Harry, that same nonchalance taking over his form once again.

"So, what's this feeling about?" George asked neutrally.

"Death Eaters," Harry said, as if it was all the explanation that they needed.

"Would you stop that?" Fred ground out, irritated. "Because one Hermione is quite enough, thanks."

Fred seemed to pause after that statement, and a smirk broke out over his face. "Well, if you and Ron weren't so adamant about trying to get in her pants at the same time, then yeah, one Hermione would be more than enough."

Harry gave him a furious look, and George chortled reluctantly.

"What's more important to you?" Harry asked darkly, setting one of the Canary Creams on fire with his wand. "Your shop or your family?"

Fred and George seemed to freeze in place, both of them wearing the same odd look on their faces.

"Why—why would you—"

"_Because_," Harry bit out. "You don't know what you have until you lost it, and to be honest, you don't seem pissed enough to want to go off the Death Eaters that did that to your sister. I mean, your whole world is practically crashing down around you, and you're still here joking and laughing like it's nothing. So, what's more important, your shop or your—"

"Our family," George said heatedly. "Our family always comes first. Why the bloody hell do you think it's so big in the first place?"

Harry shrugged and set another Canary Cream on fire.

"Good." Absently, Harry glanced back out the window towards Hermione, whose shoulders were stiff. Her fists were clenched at her sides, and her right hand, twitching ever so slightly… Harry frowned. He knew that Hermione didn't like being at the shop, but to be completely honest, it wasn't as though they had been there _that_ long. It was rather odd, now that he thought about it, but he really couldn't, not now. He had more important things to worry about than Hermione's comfort level. Annoyed, he turned away from her, and back towards Fred and George. He knew he needed to tell them of his plan to find Ron and Ginny, and no matter what they thought of it, he was going to make them listen. Steeling himself for the inevitable protests he knew he was about to receive, he leaned into the counter. He could feel his stomach flittering about nervously, could feel the weight of dread weighing in on him. He had asked himself over and over and over again—_what if I fail?_ But every time he did, he could imagine Hermione, standing there, glaring furiously at him and reminding him of who he was, reminding him of what it was that he could _do_—_Use who you are to your advantage._ And then there was Ron, and just like Hermione, he would have been just as furious, just as angry, with his arms folded across his chest, glaring sullenly at the ground. _Are you thick or what? _And that would have been enough to spur him into action, ages ago. Well, that _and_ his desire to…to…_save people._ Clearing his throat, Harry forced himself to relax, but kept his gaze intense. Fred and George weren't Ron and Hermione, and they weren't nearly as encouraging but… they did have their own uses, and they were just as much his friends as Luna, Neville, and Ginny were. Cringing at that last thought, Harry steeled himself.

"Look, I—"

And then the screaming started.

Distantly, Harry registered the shattering of glass, could hear it tinkling to the ground, and for a second, he wondered how he could even hear that over the sounds of children screaming, but then Fred and George were already darting into action, moving this way and that, herding all the children away from the entrance of the store, where someone was laying, covered in glass. Frowning, Harry stood, his self-preservation instinct diminishing almost at once. Glass was caught in her long, bushy brown hair, and there were tiny cuts on her arms, cuts that were bleeding profusely. The sight of her blood made him queasy, and for a moment, Harry could only stand there, wanting to tear out the chunks of lead in his stomach, not caring whether his blood splattered his disgusting hands. He could almost taste the blood on his tongue as he knelt down next to her, could hear someone laughing insanely, and he hefted her up, ignoring the hiss of pain she let out.

"Hermione?"

"That… that _cow,"_ Hermione hissed venomously, as she glared towards the broken window.

_Cow?_ Harry thought. _Why would a cow_—but the thought was just as ridiculous as Hermione's statement, and tiredly, he leaned back, staring at his injured friend, who was glaring up at him fiercely, as if to say "_What are you waiting for?"_

"_Harry_," Hermione started waspishly. "What are you—"

"Fred and George will come back," Harry said suddenly, brushing a piece of glass off of her shoulder. "Wait for them."

He could barely hear his own startled exclamation as the glass embedded itself into his skin, could barely feel the pain as the strange and foreign screams of _Reducto_ were heard through the blood pounding in his ears. His wand was in his sweating palm before he even realized it; he was climbing over shards of broken glass before he realized it, and distantly, he could feel the walls around him shaking, could hear Hermione's startled gasp, the sound of her body hitting the ground loudly as she groaned in pain. There was wood and bricks and glass falling down around him, darkness invaded his vision, but then there was sunlight—_much too bright_, Harry thought as he pushed through the cloud of darkness—and there were streaks of red, green, and white, coursing through the air, towards him, but—_Protego!—_had that been him, or was it someone else? His eyes scanned his enemies, could see the people standing in front of him, their black cloaks swirling imperiously as they pointed their wands at him. People all around him were screaming and running, just as they had been that day, when he had seen Ginny's arm burning black, when he had seen that sparkling green point in the sky—the Aurors had been particularly brutal that day, but it didn't stop the fact that his shield charm was breaking, or that something soft and yellow was burning his arm, or that he could see a pair of intense black eyes, staring at him piteously—_I know those eyes_—but it didn't matter, not anymore, because he could hear her screaming, could hear the jinx springing from his lips at once—_Impedimenta!_—and one of them flew back, bouncing nastily against the ground and—

Still rumbling, still falling, but he dodged and dodged and dodged and _dodged_, because this was his only way, this was what he needed to do, and—

His head stung, painfully.

"Harry!"

_Hermione._

Darkness engulfed him.

_I'm sorry._

* * *

_**January 12, 2000, 2:26 p.m.**_

The store was warm, as it had always been.

It had been one of the main comforts of the bookstore, the warm, comforting feeling that it always gave her as she stepped inside. To Hermione, it was as though she were home, _finally_, and after the past couple of weeks, she knew she needed respite.

The Weasleys had done all but blame her for Ron _and _Ginny's disappearance, and although she knew that some of the guilt belonged to her, it wasn't just hers alone. Mrs. Weasley had been bitter the night Hermione and Harry had stopped by to visit. She had seen it the moment Mrs. Weasley had swept Harry into that same bone crushing hug that she always gave, had seen it in the way she had patted Hermione's bushy hair down in speculation. Harry had given her a look after that, the one that clearly asked if everything was going to be all right, and it was all Hermione could do not to huff in annoyance. It was in that moment, when Mrs. Weasley had patted her head in that barely affectionate manner that Hermione _knew_ that Ron was still feeling… _something_ towards her. It had taken everything in Hermione to push that painful stab of guilt and desire—she still _missed him_ after all—away from her mind, because Harry was there, Harry was who she had promised her life to, it was Harry who she was with now, and although things were _better_ and although the love she felt for Harry was always going to be different from the love she felt for _Ron_, it still love, and it was still fierce and burning and _alive_… sometimes things felt too perfect, to absolute, but Hermione didn't want to change it.

Ron had made his decision long ago, and Hermione wasn't going to question it.

Tugging her scarf loose, Hermione ditched Harry at the entrance.

"Give me a moment."

Harry gave her a questioning look. "Well hurry up, then, we don't have—"

"Right," Hermione said more sharply than she intended.

Turning quickly, she left Harry blinking stupidly after her. Swiftly, Hermione moved through the arch on her left, passed the Arithmancy and Ancient Runes section, moved right through the Defense Against the Dark Arts tomes, some of which snarled viciously at her (what was it with wizards needing to make books _threatening_?) and made inappropriate comments about her hair (she was definitely going to tell the owner about _that,_ she thought, mildly offended) and finally, stopped in the Charms section. Quickly, she pulled a crumpled piece of parchment out of her robe pocket, and eyed it carefully. The writing was sloppy and messy, and idly, Hermione couldn't help but wonder whether Harry had written this but… no, Harry didn't draw stars over the tops of his i's, nor was his writing that… femininely sloppy. Grunting, Hermione reread the name for the seventeenth time—_A Most Complete and Thorough List of Charms of the Last 1,000 Years by Helga Higglesworth_—and promptly set it on fire. Almost as though possessed, she moved over to the "H" section and began searching the shelves, looking for Helga Higglesworth's name. It wasn't a very common name, and Hermione had thought that people stopped naming their children "Helga" a long time ago… frowning, Hermione glared at the numerous tomes in the "H" category and hissed softly.

Of _course _Dumbledore would make things as difficult as possible for her. She could just summon it, but knowing how vague magic could be at times, she knew that probably a hundred books would come flying off the shelves, and with her luck, one would probably try to take off her head. Grunting, Hermione pulled a ladder towards her and climbed it—really, why was it always so necessary for wizards to make things so difficult and tiresome, especially when it came to book stores? Starting at the top, Hermione began to search through the names of wizards. Some of the tomes were dusty and the spines were peeling off of them, while others were nice and new. The older ones were harder to read, especially since the print on the spinal column was fading—_probably written in actual ink_, Hermione thought, brushing her fingers over a particularly old tome, cataloging the name in her mind. _Protection Charms of the Fourteenth Century_ seemed particularly intriguing, but it seemed as though it would be fit to be in the Defense Against the Dark Arts section. Continuing down through the next four rows, Hermione read swiftly through the names – _Water Charms and Their Uses_, _The Theory of Charms, Charm Breakthroughs of the Seventeenth Century, Charms and Their Infinite Uses, The Application of Charms to Everyday Life, The History of Charms, How to Create a Charm in Seven Simple Steps, Deadly and Nasty Charms, Jinx Charms, Healing Charms of the Nineteenth Century, Charms and Their Infinite Uselessness: Edition 178, Dueling Charms, Magical and Muggle Charms and How Their Related, A Most Complete and Thorough List of Charms of the Last 1,000 Years, The Evolution of Charms Through the Ages—_

"Finally!" Hermione breathed, pulling the book from its shelf. Quickly, she shuffled through it—it wasn't particularly long, and it didn't look as though it were nothing more than a catalog of Charms, but after finally finding what she was looking for, Hermione found she didn't care. Climbing down the ladder, Hermione glanced back towards the old tome labeled _Protection Charms of the Fourteenth Century_ and promised herself that she would come back to get it as soon as she found her friends. The book in her hands was peeling at the cover, as though it had been used and read numerous times. The cover wasn't anything spectacular, and although it was dated for August of 1993 (_was it really written so long ago?_ Hermione thought, a bit irritated that Professor Flitwick wouldn't have assigned them this book, at least, during their seventh year) and it was the First Edition. Nodding approvingly, Hermione turned down the Defense Against the Dark Arts section, and continued flipping through the book, reading the names and incantations of Charms that she had never even _heard_ of. _History of Charms_ probably would have been an advisable book to buy along side of this one, and Hermione realized why Professor Flitwick probably wouldn't have chosen this book for his classes to learn from. Still, it was interesting nonetheless and—

"Still drooling over books, Granger? Potter must be disgustingly impotent if you can only find pleasure in inanimate objects."

Hermione snapped the book shut loudly, the sound echoing through the silent rows of books, and glared.

_Great_, Hermione thought nastily, immediately recognizing the tall, handsome black boy and the abnormally thin, pale, snaggle-toothed boy by his side. _Can't they find something better to do with their time other than torment me?_

"Zabini. Nott," Hermione said almost cordially. "I almost forgot that you existed. Bit busy licking the mud off of your masters robes, I wager?"

Hermione resisted the urge to wince, knowing she sounded _exactly_ like Ron did when he was in school. It was a bit funny, now that she thought about it, but… well, she didn't care at the moment. She didn't have time to sit here and exchange idle pleasantries with two Death Eaters in the middle of an almost deserted bookstore. She wondered if Harry had seen them enter, and frowned. He probably hadn't, not if they were here harassing her. Calmly, she tucked her book into the pocket of her robes, all the while, ignoring the way Nott's wand twirled through his long, bony fingers.

"I'd watch that filthy little mouth of yours, Granger," Nott said imperiously. "You wouldn't want to offend those of… _higher_ worth."

"Thank you for the advice," Hermione said snappily. "As soon as I see someone of higher worth, I'll be sure to exercise the utmost respect."

"Why you dirty little mudblood," Nott hissed, his face the ugly color of puce. "I would have thought that Potter would have trained his whore a little bit better, but you can't expect much from those dirty half-bloods, can you?"

"Voldemort's a half-blood," Hermione said, her voice deceptively quiet. They both flinched, but while Nott took his time to glare at her, Zabini only looked mildly impressed.

"How _dare_—"

"Nott!" Zabini suddenly interrupted. Nott froze and stared at the black boy, as though he had just been caught by his father, attempting to steal sweets before dinner. "Go watch for Potter."

When Nott looked like he was about to protest, Zabini whipped out his wand and trained it on his comrade, and the color drained from his face. "I am way more proficient with the Unforgivables than you will ever be," Zabini said softly. "Go watch for Potter while I teach the mudblood her lesson."

Nott moved away more quickly than Hermione had anticipated. Clutching the book closer to her side, Hermione took a step back as Zabini lowered his wand and moved closer to her. She could see the amusement in his eyes, the slight thrill of excitement, and it wasn't until his lips quirked up into that malicious sneer that haunted her all seven years at Hogwarts—it was then that Hermione knew she was in trouble. Hermione dropped her tome and pulled her wand out of her pocket so fast, Zabini didn't even realize she had done it until he was thrown into the shelf behind him, causing the books to rattle slightly.

The sound echoed throughout the silent section of the bookstore, and already, Hermione could hear hurried footsteps and murmuring voices coming her way. Zabini looked up at her, his lips twisted into a smirk, and righted himself. He brushed the imaginary dust off his robes, and continued to look at her, his obsidian black eyes pinning her to the spot. Her grip on her wand seemed to waver, and she took a step towards the entrance, her trainers scuffing the discarded tome.

"You win, Granger," Zabini said storing his wand in his pocket. "Wouldn't want people to think I'm torturing a poor, helpless Mudblood, would I? And _Potter's_ Mudblood at that."

The way he said Harry's name caused a shiver of fear to dance down her spine, but as Zabini turned and began walking towards the exit, Hermione sighed in relief. Quickly, she stored her wand in her pocket and bent down to retrieve her fallen book and—

A sharp pain in her shoulder jarred her, and caused her vision to swim. Letting out a shaky breath, Hermione felt Zabini's soft fingers curl around her neck, one of his arms pressed painfully into her chest, his eyes narrowed dangerously. She could feel his grip tightening, could feel her chest burning as she struggled to breathe, but after an effortless moment of struggling, Hermione stopped and glared at him fiercely, her lips pressed so tightly together, they were almost nonexistent. The shelf dug painfully into her back, and she could feel the books rocking precariously on their shelves, and the sound of feet was coming closer… surely someone would get here in time to see this, possibly Harry, _hopefully_ Harry and—

"What's more important Granger? Your family, or your precious Order?"

Hermione felt as though someone had just injected lead into every part of her body.

"What?" She gasped. "If you even _think_ about hurting my family, I'll—"

Zabini pressed his hand against her mouth, his fingers digging painfully into her cheek.

"If our Lord ever got a hold of your precious Muggle parents, they wouldn't stand a chance. You know, it's quite interesting really. You're so worried about what happened to your little Weasels, that you haven't even realized what's happening to those pathetic Muggle parents of yours. You never know what you have until you lose it… Weasels are worthless, but if you had to choose which world to save, which world to keep from crumbling around you, which one would you choose, Granger? Muggles or wizards?"

Hermione trembled violently.

Zabini sneered malevolently, and patronizingly, he patted her cheek and pressed a mocking kiss to her forehead. "That's a good mudblood," he whispered. "Maybe if you would have kept better track of your Weasels to begin with, this never would have happened."

Angrily, Hermione pulled her wand from her pocket, but before she even had a chance to mutter a proper stunning spell, Zabini apparated away. Growling in frustration, Hermione stored her wand in her pocket and snatched up her book quickly, rubbing at the tears in her eyes. The sound of Zabini's apparition pounded noisily in Hermione's ears, continued to echo all around her, and it wasn't until a pink haired witch rounded the Defense Against the Dark Arts section that Hermione realized she was still trembling and crying horribly.

"Is something the matter, Miss?" The witch asked, looking positively shocked.

"You might," Hermione snapped viciously, "want to think about installing All Seeing Orbs. Or are the workers so daft that they can't even ensure the safety of their bloody costumers?"

The witch's lips thinned. "Now, I hardly think that—"

"You know," Hermione said loudly as she stormed passed the entrance of the store, where Harry was currently immersed in a Quidditch magazine. "It would be in your best interest to _shut up._ And, is there a reason why your store still serves _Death Eaters?_" Hermione knew that her voice had gone a bit shrilly then, but only a few people around her had actually heard her, and she was far enough away from Harry to actually prevent him from sending any concerned looks her way. The witch looked positively incensed, but Hermione found she didn't care. Snarling, she slammed the book down on the counter in front of her, her eyes narrowed into tiny slits. "I would like to see the owner of the store, thank you."

The witch stormed off in a foul mood, only to show up with the owner of the store a moment later. Annoyed, Hermione pulled out a piece of parchment and shoved it towards him. The elderly man looked at her curiously, and quickly read the contents of the note. His eyebrows were practically at his hair line by the time he finished reading, and as though in a trance, he shooed the pink haired witch away, and eyed Hermione carefully.

"Well?" He asked a bit impatiently.

"_Muffliato_," Hermione murmured, and a quiet buzzing filled the room.

"The sky is particularly bright today," the elderly man stated.

"Almost as though there's a phoenix on the horizon," Hermione recited, feeling annoyed.

"Good, good," he said, rubbing a grisly hand against his wrinkled forehead. "This is to go directly to Dumbledore, you see. It can only be opened by him, you understand, so—"

The implication that she would be harmed by a nasty curse was not lost on Hermione. Slowly, he walked around the counter, looked down at the book, lifted it up, and cataloged its title and price. As he was setting it down, he slipped a small brown package underneath it, tied them both together with string, and slid them over the counter to her. Hermione dropped a Sickle and three Knuts on the counter, giving the owner a brief nod.

"_Finite Incantatum_," Hermione whispered, the force of her own incantation sounding venomous, even to her. As she reached the entrance, Harry glanced up at her, eyed her purchases warily, and tried to take her hand, but instead, Hermione snatched it away and stormed out. Arching an eyebrow, Harry followed quickly.

"What's the matter?"

"_Nothing_," Hermione snapped, whirling on him. She was positively radiating annoyance and aggravation, and Harry took a step back, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "I never want to set foot inside that vile place again."

Harry blinked slowly.

"Hermione, are you sure—"

"Just drop it!"

Frustrated, Harry complied without another word.

* * *

He was waiting for her at the edge of the River.

His boat was a beautiful, ebony sculpture of marble, glittering malevolently in the fading light. Figures clouded in shadow gripped the edge of the boat, their fingers long and thin, almost undefined. She could see him, just as well as she could see everything else—he was cloaked imperiously in shadow, waiting patiently. The skin on his face sagged horribly; his lips were thin and chapped, his expression, cool. His fingers were gnarled and broken as they gripped the marble oar—bone protruded from the torn flesh, but the rivulets of crimson she had expected to see were absent, unnoticeable. _The Dead love blood_, he seemed to say, and in response, something cool and undefined brushed against her, chilling her to the bone.

His obsidian colored eyes flashed in response.

Slowly, she stepped closer to the edge of the River, unsure. She couldn't remember it, this disgusting feeling of dread, this feeling of uncertainty. She knew that she had felt it before, could tell by the startling urge to turn and flee, but something pushed her closer, caused her heart to race, and distantly, someone told her that shouldn't have happened. _You're not supposed to be here._

The water sloshed around her ankles, icy and demanding, and it was all she could do not to be taken under.

Carefully, she lifted her hand, gripped the edge of the boat, and pulled herself in.

"That," the boatman said quietly, his voice thick and gravelly, causing a shiver to run down her spine and grip her heart so painfully, her entire body seemed to freeze, "was a mistake."

"I-I don't understand," she whispered, edging away. "Where… where am I?"

The boatman grinned wickedly, his perfectly white teeth glittering in the dim light. "The River leaves none to escape."

Confusion clouded her mind, but the chains had already wrapped around her ankles, dug into her flesh, and it was all she could not to cry out in pain.

"The River?" she asked quietly, through a whimper of pain.

The boatman's fingers scrapped against the marble of the oar, and before she realized it, the boat was drifting noiselessly across the black river. She could hear wisps of voices, tattered sayings, and curious, she leaned closer. She could see their faces in the water, terrified, worried. Their eyes were bleeding rivulets of red, their faces, white and pale and so undefined—_no, _she thought as one face blurred into the next, _this isn't what I want._

_You do not belong here._

"What's the River?" She asked suddenly, leaning towards him. "Why am I here?"

The boatman turned towards her slowly, his face expressionless, but his eyes were blazing. "You would do well not to question me, mortal."

His voice shook her to the core.

She could feel the darkness rocking around her, its fierce talons gripping her heart painfully. Something hot and sticky clung to her skin, soaking through her white, pristine gown, and she knew she couldn't look. Knew she didn't want to, but it slid down her skin, moist and beautiful—_gruesome_—and the faces lifted through the surface of the water, their tears crimson and violent, their cries painful and brutal. One gripped the edge of the marble boat, hissing furiously at her, its face pale and clouded. It gripped her wrist tightly—_ohmerlinsocold_—"make it stop!"

"Foolish mortal," the boatman hissed, the darkness swirling around him violently. "Release _her_."

"_She bleeds our blood."_

The boatman hissed violently, his shadows lashing out towards the blurring figure gripping her.

"_Release her_," he said so quietly, so deadly, that she wrenched her wrist free of the blurring figure and pressed her body to the floor of the boat. Sweat was beading on her brow, and her heart was hammering fiercely in her chest. _Oh Merlin_, she thought, her breathe hitching painfully. _Make it stop. Please, make it stop._

"Pathetic mortals," the boatman murmured, pressing his oar painfully into her back. "Only the truly foolish shall be punished."

"For what?" She asked breathlessly, her wrist throbbing painfully. "I don't understand what I did. Perhaps if you'd just _explain_—"

"The Gods do not lower themselves!" He spat, the edge of his oar cutting into her flesh. "The Gods are not obligated to explain themselves to mortals!"

She shuddered as a cool, freezing spray drenched her body.

The River

"Oh," she murmured, her eyes widening in fright. "_Charon._"

The boatman's shadows flared violently, and almost at once, she could feel her lungs aching painfully as the air left them. Her skin felt tight, thin. She could see her veins, dark and blue through the white, papery surface of her skin. Shaking, she touched the bulge on the underside of her wrist, could feel her blood pumping through them steadily. The manacles on her ankles tightened, and the aged boatman's oar descended into her flesh, cutting and slicing and _tearing_—

_Bleed for us, mortal._

_You shall be our sacrifice._

Her throat was raw and tight and she couldn't think through the pain that was assailing her body.

It was hot and blistering, pinching and pulling on her veins, demanding to be noticed, willing her to scream. Her tongue was thick and heavy in her mouth; her nails were chipped and bleeding onto the beautiful ebony surface. The shadows surged around them, vicious and angry as the undefined figures reared up out of the water, furious, wanting blood. The boatman's eyes flashed dangerously, but the fire was hot on her back, burning, blistering, soaking. Her skin was pallid and sweaty, the tears in her eyes blinding and salty. She could feel the threat of darkness creeping on the edges of her mind, teasing her. It was blissful, even to her. She didn't want to feel her blood on her body, didn't want to feel the bite of pain or the sting of tears. The ebony boat rocked precariously as the white figures danced brutally around the marble, shrieking in terror as the shadows devoured them, one by one. The boatman's eyes danced gleefully as the figures were ripped brutally apart, becoming nothing more than a faint, undefined silver mist that continued to linger in the darkened air. It was horrific, and it was all she could do not to cry out in pain.

She felt as though she was stuck in a pool of molasses and slowly, she reached down and gripped the manacles around her ankles tightly. There had to be some way… something that she was missing. That had said that she wasn't supposed to be there, hadn't they? The voices… they had—_oh._ Eyes widening, she gripped the manacles even tighter, took a deep, rabid breath and—_Reducto!—_the boatman whirled towards her, his eyes flashing dangerously. His shadows swarmed around him, fluctuating quickly in the fading light, and she knew that—_oh Merlin_.

"You spineless, pathetic mortal," he said quietly. "You actually believe that _this_ God would allow _you_ to escape?"

Painfully, she lifted her head. "Yes."

"And why," he asked softly, leaning closer to her, "would I do that?"

"Because," she gasped, her chest and back burning unbearably, "You don't have a choice in the matter."

The boatman grinned viciously, his pearly teeth sparkling ethereally. "I don't have a choice? _I_ don't have a choice?"

"No, not really. Because, you see, only mortal _souls_ are allowed to cross the River, but I'm… I'm not a soul. I'm a _witch._"

The boatman's lips twisted unpleasantly.

"A witch? Whose magic was only given to her because the Gods made it so."

"Well, yes, but that's hardly the point, isn't it?" she asked, her bottom lip quivering as she waited for his answer.

The boatman paused—

—seemed to think—

—looked at her—

—and promptly pushed her into the River.

Instantly, her body shook and her heart jumped painfully. She could feel the souls swarming her, could feel them pinching and pulling on her limbs. Her nerves felt like they were on fire, her body felt as though it were emptying and—"I'm not supposed to be here!" she gasped, wrenching free of the vicious souls. She could hear the boatman's laughter filling her ears, and her limbs felt like lead as she tried to swim. She could see the edge of the river, lapping calmly against the black sands. She could see the darkness swarming around her, could feel the shadows pushing her back, further into the River, but she wouldn't let it. Her blood was cold in her veins, and her pupils dilated –_much too dark_, her mind seemed to scream at her, as the darkness crept closer and closer through her mind. But…_no._ She wouldn't let them. She was going to make it, she was going to survive, and she wouldn't be stuck here anymore, she wouldn't be anyone's sacrifice, not like…like…

The sand pressed darkly between her toes, and she could see the boatman, drifting slowly in the water, his oar trailing lazily behind him.

She could feel the warmth returning to her body, could feel the emptiness being filled and—

_And you will be delivered through the darkness, in pieces._

Her world shattered.

* * *

_**January 12, 2000, 5:00 p.m.**_

"Hermione."

The air around her seemed to tremble, but there was only darkness.

She reached out to touch it, but angrily, it shied away.

She wanted to stay lost in it, to feel its icy rage coursing through her, to _destroy_ her because, really, was there any other way? It tittered at the thought, and she could feel something warm pressing against her body, could feel something wonderfully delicious coursing through her veins. But… no. She wanted the darkness, only the darkness. Because when there was darkness, there was no pain, no sorrow, no feeling. She didn't want to feel anymore, didn't want to breathe, all she wanted was that beautiful aching numbness, the absoluteness of death, because she knew what death _was_, and if she were to drown, she could drown being _perfect_, not chipped and shattered and _broken._

"_Hermione_."

No, she didn't want the warmth, didn't want to feel broken and lost. Not anymore.

_Go away,_ she whispered, feeling her frozen limbs aching painfully. _I just want to die. Please, just let me _die.

"_HERMIONE!"_

Painfully, her eyes snapped open, and almost at once, she let out a shriek of pain. Her blood pounded painfully in her head, her limbs ached, and the air stung her flesh. Groaning piteously, she rolled over on the soft, cool mattress beneath her and pressed her face into her pillow, forcing down a sob. _Damn_, she thought viciously. _Why did they have to wake me up?_

"Hermione," the soft voice murmured, and she could feel something smooth and warm get pressed into her hand. "Take this potion; it will help numb the pain."

_Yes, well, that will work, too._

Blearily, she gulped down the watery potion, ignoring the harsh bitter taste that came with it. She could feel a soft, tingling sensation in her right leg, and experimentally she wiggled her toes, biting down on her tongue as a sharp, almost indescribable pain caused her to flinch at the ache. Her head continued to throb, but that magical warmth spread to her skull as well, and it was all she could do not to fade back into the darkness that had been pervading her mind only moments before.

Sighing loudly, Hermione allowed her eyes to open.

Mrs. Weasley was next to her bed, dipping a cloth into a small basin of ointment nervously. The twins were at the end of her bed, watching her carefully, although Hermione was almost sure that George was exuding some genuine concern. Lupin was there, too, prying the small potion vial out of her hand and setting it on the bedside dresser.

"How are you feeling?" Lupin asked, leaning closer to Hermione. "Does anything hurt?"

Hermione gave him a blank look.

"Just checking," Lupin responded calmly, straightening. "Luckily, no one was seriously injured except for you."

Silently, Mrs. Weasley pressed the cloth to Hermione's forehead, causing her to squirm unpleasantly.

Fred and George remained stonily silent.

"Oh," Hermione said simply. "How's Harry?"

Mrs. Weasley pressed the cloth into her forehead unnecessarily hard.

"Sorry, dear," she said softly as Hermione flinched. "No one knows where Harry is."

"That's why we need to know what happened," Lupin interrupted, waving off Hermione's attempt to talk. "You were the last one to see Harry, so surely you must know—"

"It was that cow, Parkinson and all of her little Death Eater friends," Hermione said harshly. "I mean, I should have realized something was up, especially after Zabini—"

"Blaise Zabini was there?" Lupin asked warily.

"Yes," Hermione started slowly. "I'm pretty sure he left a good size bruise across my chest—"

"He did _what_?" Mrs. Weasley asked suddenly, her voice low. Hermione shifted away from the older woman, her eyes widening. She could sense the anger in her voice, could almost _feel_ it, but it wasn't like Mrs. Weasley to not get loud and angry. It wasn't like her to have those icy, freezing eyes, nor the pale, white skin. Mrs. Weasley's lips thinned angrily, and she stared at Hermione as though she had never seen her in her life.

"Well," Hermione started slowly. "When I was in Flourish and Blotts, Zabini and Nott cornered me—"

"Harry wasn't with you?" Lupin interrupted, his eyes narrowing slightly. When Hermione shifted nervously, Lupin sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Hermione, I understand that you are a fully trained wizard, but traveling into Flourish and Blotts alone, especially since they've made their extension, is dangerous. Where was Harry during your transaction?"

"At the front of the store, waiting for me."

"He was with Hermione when they arrived at our shop, if it's any consolation," George said, fiddling with the corner of Hermione's sheets. Frowning, Lupin turned towards the twins, watching as Fred continued to gaze around the hospital wing nonchalantly. Mrs. Weasley pulled the cloth away from Hermione's head, and dipped it back into the small basin, her eyes darting back and forth. Hermione was almost certain that Mrs. Weasley was reaching her breaking point. It was probably bad enough that Ron had gone missing, especially considering his condition, but then Ginny had disappeared, the thick, disgusting tattoo hissing imperiously at them. It had been strange, knowing that Ginny had been marked, but… it didn't make sense all the same. Harry had nearly gone mad over the simple fact that Ginny was gone; it had become so bad that Hermione had to forcibly tear him away from his own thoughts.

But she had been just as withdrawn as well. She knew what it felt like to lose the one she loved the mo—_no,_ Hermione thought, shaking her head. _No._ It had been before Harry, before Ron's insanity, but now it wasn't the same. She had felt a deep, gaping wound before. It had felt as though the very life was bleeding out of her, but she had hated Ron before, had despised the way he acted and treated her. Ron was nothing more than a jealous little boy at times, and if someone did something wrong to him, he bit back. At times, it was almost as though he bit without even needed to be provoked like… like…

A snake.

Hermione tugged the covers up to her chin, and resisted the urge to stare balefully at Lupin.

It was different, speaking with the Weasleys. It wasn't as though she was no longer family, but as she sat there, waiting for Mrs. Weasley to dab that ointment onto her gashed forehead, she didn't feel welcome or wanted. But she had been used to it, during first year, when Ron had shunned her for trying to help. She knew what it was like, when she had been trapped within that cold dream that the Basilisk had induced on her. It had been strange, walking through the cold, freezing waters, trapped halfway between life and death. She had felt the ice on her skin; she had felt the wind nipping painfully at it… Dumbledore had asked her even then, if she had dreams of anything, but she had done what she always did, she lied and told stories and pretended as though she wasn't frightened and that she was strong. But… but she _wasn't_, because strength was Harry, and terror was Ron. She was afraid of failing, of becoming something that she never wanted to come, and yet…

Ron was insane, wasn't he?

It wasn't fair, blaming him for her terror, for the deep, irrefutable fear that she felt whenever she thought about him. It wasn't fair, knowing that she hated him for leaving her, but continued to love him all the same. It wasn't fair that she had him so close to her, only to lose him a moment later. It wasn't fair, knowing that she still loved him as much as she loved Harry, or that she missed him more than she missed Harry, or that she didn't care whether or not Harry got hurt, because Harry could make it through, and Ron _couldn't_, especially not _now_—it wasn't fair, knowing that Harry was in just as much danger as Ron, especially when she loved them, both, but…

_I'm so selfish._

"Hermione?"

Hermione blinked, and gripped the sheets in her hands tighter.

"It isn't," Hermione said quietly, causing the other four occupants to look at her oddly. "Any consolation," she added as an afterthought.

George looked away.

"I mean, they're still gone, aren't they? Ron, Ginny, and Harry? He went to fight them, but I don't know why. He didn't _have_ to fight them, but he did." Hermione paused, and looked at Lupin. "It was almost like he wasn't even trying. Sure, he used the _Impedimenta_ jinx on Nott, but then he allowed Zabini to gash his head, and he just sort of fell. Then the shop walls were just… crumbling like…" Hermione paused, her eyes widening and her lips pressing together tightly. "Oh, _no_."

"Hermione?" Lupin asked as her head fell in her hands.

Bitterly, Hermione looked up at him, tears already streaking down her face.

"He made me choose," Hermione said simply, scrubbing angrily at the tears on her face. "Zabini made me _choose._"

The twins both shifted uncomfortably, and Fred's eyes narrowed in thought.

"Choose between what?"

"My family or the Order."

"What did you choose?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her eyes oddly bright.

"My family."

Mrs. Weasley smiled. "Well that's wonderful, Hermione dear, I'm really rather glad that you—"

"Oi, hang on," Fred interrupted urgently. "Harry asked us the same thing."

Lupin sat back, leaning heavily on Hermione's legs. "Did he?"

"Well, no," George said. "But, he did give us the choice of our family or our shop."

Hermione frowned. "Why would—"

"Hermione," Lupin said suddenly. "What, precisely, did Blaise Zabini say to you in Flourish and Blotts?"

Hermione sighed, and slowly inched away from Lupin.

"Let's see, I think he started off with 'You win, Granger, wouldn't want people to think I'm torturing a poor, helpless mu-mud'… oh, do I have to say it?" Lupin shook his head, and patted her knee, urging her to continue. "Right, so helpless Muggleborn, and Potter's Muggleborn at that."

Lupin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands together under his chin. His head was tilted towards her as she spoke, and his graying hair was falling messily into his eyes. When Mrs. Weasley dabbed the ointment covered cloth against the gash on her forehead once again, Hermione leaned back against the headboard of her bed, and watched as Fred stared intently at blank white sheets in front of her. George was leaning haplessly against the brass railings of her bed, and for a moment, Hermione was struck by the sudden sereneness of the situation. It was almost as though they were a family, watching over their sick child, but as soon as her lips started to twitch in amusement, Mrs. Weasley nudged her slightly, causing the wound above her eyebrow to sting.

"Then he went to ask me what was more important, and after that, he said that if his Lord ever got a hold of my precious Muggle parents, they would not stand a chance. He said that it was interesting that I was so worried about my, excuse me Mrs. Weasley, Weasels, that I haven't realized what's happening to my parents." Hermione's breath hitched at this, and Mrs. Weasley coated her wound with more ointment. "He also said that I wouldn't know what I had until I lost it, that Weasels are worthless, and if I had to chose which world to save to keep from crumbling around me, would I chose the Muggles or the wizards?"

Lupin opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione shook her head. "He also said that I was a good muggleborn, and that if I would have kept better track of my Weasels to begin with, that this never would have happened."

Fred glared angrily at the bed cloth.

"Interesting," Lupin said suddenly.

Hermione pursed her lips and stared at her ex-Professor. "What is?"

"He keeps saying Weasels, as in more than one. We never thought that Death Eaters had captured Ron as well." When George opened his mouth to speak, Lupin waved him off dismissively. "We anticipated it, of course, but we never really knew for sure, did we? But Zabini let you know more than once that they had both Ron and Ginny." Lupin paused once again, his brow furrowing as he stared intently at the linoleum floor.

"So they really kidnapped my brother?" George asked hotly, his eyes flashing.

Lupin turned to him, opened his mouth to speak, but before he was even able to get a word in, Fred's eyes darted up to Hermione's, causing her to twitch at the suddenness of it. Lazily, Lupin glanced back at her, but instead of acknowledging him, Hermione continue to look at Fred, waiting to see what he had to say. They had all been particularly somber since Ron and Ginny had disappeared, but Hermione had expected it. If she were being honest with herself, which she always was, then she knew that this had as much to do with her own faults as much as anyone else's. She had heard the voices after all, had listened to them mutter their dark threats, and yet, she had been so frightened, so terrified of actually letting them _know_ what it was that was bothering her-the voices, the terror, the denial-that she had hid it beneath a vision of black cloaks and white masks and the promise of death and Dark Marks. And shortly after, it had actually _happened_, and now, Ginny was gone, there was nothing that could really be done except...

_Tell the truth._

But Hermione couldn't do that, not now, not now that she knew what was happening, knew what could happen, and knew that Voldemort had Ron and Ginny locked away somewhere. Death Eaters had Harry, _too_, but-_Harry could have escaped. No one actually saw Harry disappear with them_, Hermione thought fervently, biting down on the inside of her lip. Fred's eyes shifted to the gash over her eyebrow, and slowly, she took a quiet breath of relief. She knew that Fred and George were just as talented as their mother when separating the truth from the lies, and if they had asked her, if they really wanted to know what it was that she was thinking, they would get it out of her no matter what the cost. After all, their family was more important than she was, and although she had a chance at becoming a part of their family, she was still a Granger, still a Muggleborn, and still _Harry's fiancée._

"It seems that way," Lupin said gently. "However, Zabini continued to talk about him as though both Ginny and Ron are still alive."

Mrs. Weasley gave a muffled sob.

"So, we just have to hope that we can find Ron and Ginny before they decide to-"

"Malfoy said it, too," Hermione said suddenly, her eyes focused on Fred's bright red hair. "The day they disappeared, right before we saw them kidnap Ginny. _Heard you lost some Weasleys._ He was practically boasting to us that they had them-"

Lupin shifted uncomfortably, and Mrs. Weasley gave a shuddering angry breath.

"When did you plan on telling us this, Hermione?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her face turning an interesting shade of white. "Why couldn't you... Draco Malfoy is a prominent public figure, only those who still remember his father's incarceration know that he is associated with You-Know-Who, and if the Ministry gets wind of Draco Malfoy being associated with Death Eaters then—"

"I doubt they'd hide them somewhere so conspicuous," Lupin interrupted, coming to Hermione's rescue.

"That's not the point, Remus, and you know it!" Mrs. Weasley snapped, tears welling in her eyes. "It could have been prevented; Ron and Ginny could have-"

"Molly," Lupin said gently. "You seem to forget, Harry was with Hermione the day that Ginny disappeared. If there was anything that they would have been focusing on at the time, it would have been the way Harry and Draco taunted each other, not in the way that Draco boasted about having captured both Ron and Ginny."

Mrs. Weasley shook her head.

"Harry was paying attention," Hermione said quietly, feeling guilty. "He repeated what Malfoy said, and then he seemed almost frantic as he searched the crowd for her-"

"Hermione," Lupin said gently, placing a comforting hand on her knee. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

"She must not have remembered," Fred answered unexpectedly. When Hermione looked at him, surprised, Fred merely gave her an indecipherable nod. "She was practically going mental herself the morning Ron disappeared." Fred paused, a small grin splitting his face. "She was talking to herself the moment she entered the kitchen."

"Fred!" Mrs. Weasley yelled, glaring at her son. "Be serious!"

"Don't worry, Mum, I am being serious."

Mrs. Weasley looked like she wanted to scream at him and burst into tears at the same time.

Feeling guilty, Hermione looked down at her clasped hands. She wasn't even sure why she hadn't thought of it before, why she hadn't questioned it, yet... yet it wasn't her fault. She had been so distraught over the thought of losing Ron _and_ Ginny, that she had simply pushed Malfoy's words to the back of her mind. She had told Harry to ignore him, not worry about it, but as soon as she did, Harry had remembered what Malfoy said, Harry had taken it to heart, and now, Harry was gone. Biting her lip, Hermione glanced at the potion vial on the desk.

Ron had told her to ignore the voices as well, but instead of actually listening to Ron, she had listened to _them_, and she couldn't help but want to laugh at the irony. But the thought of laughing made her stomach want to ache, and instead of divulging into that sad, pathetic, half-hysterical laughter, she leaned forward instead, listening as Lupin breathed quietly, deep in thought.

There was something that was missing. She could feel it as she thought of everything that she had remembered, could feel it as Fred, George, and Mrs. Weasley began to bicker back and forth over who was being serious and who wasn't. It was a bit silly, now that she thought about it, too silly for the situation, too silly for Ron's insanity, for Ginny's Dark Mark... Just. Too. _Silly_.

She wanted to scream and yell and argue, but Lupin's hand had migrated back to her knee, was pressing it down painfully, and it was all Hermione could do not to bite down on her tongue in pain.

_The numbing potion must be wearing off, _she thought as Lupin's hand went back to clasp the other under his chin. There was nothing fine about the situation, nothing that was decent or proper, or... closing her eyes, Hermione pressed her fingers into her temples. Yes, it was partly her fault, but Fred didn't really need to vouch for her. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself after all, and although she loved Mrs. Weasley more than she truly wanted to admit, there were times when she thought that Mrs. Weasley could control herself better, think about the situation better, _deal_ with the situation better, instead of hoisting all the blame onto her. After all, if she hadn't have allowed Ron and Ginny to join the Order, then it wouldn't have been a problem.

But then... it wasn't her fault, either.

Things just _happened, _and if Ron hadn't have been so _demanding_ and stubborn, then everything could have been fine.

But even Dumbledore had told her that things would happen as they were meant to be, and that instead of dwelling on who was to blame for what, that she should move on with her life. There were no petrified bodies or Unforgivable curses in the Muggle world. Yes, there was death and kidnappings, but it happened so rarely, that no one knew what to do if there was complete and utter peace. Hermione knew that wizards would be confused and distraught... they lived for adventure and for something _more; _Hermione knew what it meant to want more, had felt that desire, had _wanted it._ It had been in her, too, during her first year. It had burned brightly, blinding all of those around her. Snape had called her a bossy, little know-it-all. McGonagall had awarded her points for it and Dumbledore... Dumbledore had merely smiled at her, thankful for the fact that she had become friends with Harry Potter. It had been twice as prominent during her second and third year, but when Cedric Diggory had died, something inside of her had died as well.

She had begged Harry not to go to the Department of Mysteries, had felt as though there was _something_ that was wrong, but Harry didn't listen, Harry wanted to _save Sirius_ and-

Oh, _no._

The color drained from Hermione's face as she stared blankly ahead, lost in her thoughts.

Of _course._ It was... it was so _Harry._ He didn't care whether or not his life was on the line, he didn't care whether or not other people were worried about him. His best friend was gone, his best friend's little sister had disappeared, and yet, here was Hermione, all by herself, with her precious little Order to protect her. Hermione wanted to curse Harry for leaving her on her own. She wanted to hate him and to scorn him and... and what else could she do? Harry had made doubly sure that she wasn't in any danger. He had made sure that there was nothing that she could do about him disappearing, that there was nothing that _anyone_ could do except for blame _her_ for his disappearance as well. She knew that Harry was counting on her to be so distracted by everyone's scorn that she wouldn't even realize that he had planned on disappearing until it was too late. Of course, by doing so, he had practically ensured her death, but...

Something wiggled uncomfortably in the pit of Hermione's stomach, and she squirmed away from Lupin, who was rubbing her knee pleasantly.

"Professor," she said through gritted teeth. "I don't mean to be rude, but you're making me a bit uncomfortable."

Lupin blinked, his cheeks turning a faint red and then stood, marching to the end of the bed.

"Mskry," he muttered unintelligibly. "Is there anything else we need to know?"

Guilt flared dangerously within Hermione, but instead of talking, she merely turned away and pressed her lips together, hating Harry for his deception. "No, I don't suppose there is."

Fred and George frowned, and Mrs. Weasley rolled some gauze into a tight little ball, glancing at Hermione's gash with big, puffy red eyes.

"Very well," Lupin muttered as he walked over to the fireplace. "I'll let Dumbledore know. We're going to do everything we can in order to get Ron and Ginny back." When Mrs. Weasley let out another shuddering gasp, Lupin smiled kindly at her. "Don't worry Molly. I'm sure it's just Voldemort wanting... no, needing more pure blood within his ranks. It does look bad on him, knowing that at least one prestigious Pureblood family does not really care for a, and forgive me for being politically incorrect, racial purification. If there are two, extremely talented Weasleys within his ranks, it only goes to put more fear into other people's hearts. Especially since those two Weasleys were once such strong supporters of Dumbledore. It's a good plan, really, but Ginny and Ron are both far too strong to be taken over by something as silly as the Imperius Curse, don't you think?"

"It doesn't have anything to do with the Imperius Curse," Hermione said, staring intently at the wall opposite Lupin.

Lupin paused. "Hermione, I'm quite sure that Ron and Ginny wouldn't serve him any other way."

"You're wrong," Hermione said quietly. "They would have. Especially if he gave them a _choice._"

"Ah," Lupin said in understanding, his eyes darkening at the implication.

Hermione didn't voice it, but she couldn't help but feel the same way.

* * *

_**January 12, 2000, 11:56 p.m.**_

She had been there.

She had been there and she was bright and beautiful, and he wanted nothing more than to go near her. He knew that she felt irritated, distracted. He could tell by the way her lips had pursed unpleasantly, could tell by the way her shoulders were stiff, the way her eyes had narrowed, and by the way her hair was so unnaturally frizzy. He had seen her at the bookstore, had wanted to speak with her, but even then, someone had pulled him away, had forced him to focus, but whenever he thought of her, her voice was in his head, teasing him, rolling around unpleasantly. Reminding him.

Irritated, he scratched at his left arm, glaring down at the disgusting burn mark on his freckled skin.

If he thought hard enough, he could almost clutch the snake wriggling on his arm, but whenever he tried, it always burrowed into his flesh, away from the surface, biting and pulling at the muscles underneath. It was so very annoying, feeling that magic coursing through his veins, feeling that... that infection. But no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't _destroy it_ the way that he wanted to, he couldn't get rid of it, he just... he just _couldn't._

But if she were there, he knew that she could, knew that she _would_, if just given the chance. She would check and search and check and search until she was satisfied that there was absolutely nothing _there_ to help her get rid of this disgusting infection. Something twisted within his stomach painfully, and he rolled over on his moldy blanket and stared blankly at the moss covered wall. Yes, it would have been so easy, simply walking up to her. He had felt his world narrow, just as it always did whenever she was around. He had felt his heart lift as he remembered what it was like feeling her sliding over his naked skin, touching her, smelling her, _having _her. His lust had growled dangerously in the pit of his belly, and it was all he could do not to hate _him_ for having her as well. He had wanted to speak to her, had even tried to, but something black and sinister had stopped him, freezing him to the spot. Then he had watched as she had gone flying through the air, had watched as red quickly began trickling down her pretty white flesh-_so pretty_, he thought absently. _It had been so pretty._

Rage had trickled away into nothingness at that moment, and in the distance, he could see birds cracking and twisting and falling apart, their pretty red blood raining down the Alley. He had pictured someone screaming, had dreams of it even, and before he realized it, that giant snake was in the sky, laughing at him angrily. His throat had felt raw, so thick and bloody from being forced to speak, but... the moss on the wall shifted slightly, and his eyes narrowed in delight. He could see it shifting, changing, and snake on his skin wriggled uncomfortably, digging into his flesh.

Absently, he swiped at it, barely registering the sharp, stinging pain that accompanied it. Something hot and warm trickled down his pale skin, but all he could see was the moss, green and hideous, twisting and changing and never being the same again. The cracks were growing, getting larger, and he felt smaller and smaller as he watched, his world widening, his chest aching, and distantly, he could still see the birds being ripped apart in midair, singing and smiling and laughing. _It doesn't hurt,_ they said, laughing as their wings were ripped from their tiny bodies. _Not one bit._

Something gripped his chest tightly, and tiredly, he crept away from the cracks.

_It feels nice to finally die._

Darkness trickled in at the edge of his mind, and the moss smiled at him, biting through the snake, spilling its pretty blood.

_'Why don't you ever strive for more?'_

It made sense though, humans killing snakes, just as snakes killed humans, and it was all such a vicious cycle that it made him want to laugh. Wiggling his toes, he draped the moldy blanket over his shoulders imperiously, grinning at the way the snake's body slithered together once more, as though nothing had hurt it.

"I'll get rid of you," he muttered, kicking at the wall. "Just like the birds. They're a bit scary, really, exploding in the air like that, but they're still pretty."

_'I just want what's best for you. You're working too hard, and you need a break. Why can't you see that?'_

"You should be quiet, you know," he said politely, crawling over to the wall.

"She's always in there," he explained to nothing. "But she never _listens._ Always talking, but never knows when to keep her bossy little mouth shut."

Something within him squirmed unpleasantly, and he smiled. "But I love her mouth."

The snake on his arm bit his flesh, and angrily, he scratched at the raw, swollen skin again, ignoring the way his blood beaded on his arm. "Her mouth is really pretty. Except when she's talking. She's always... she's always _blaming_ me but she doesn't understand that I can't be like _them_."

_'But you aren't Percy, Ron! Stop basing your existence off of his mistakes!'_

"You would say that," he muttered, defeated. Tiredly, he rolled the moldy blanket around his neck, smelling the old, wet cloth. His stomach churned unpleasantly, but still, he pressed his arm into the cold, damp floor, his heart jumping as it stung fiercely. He could almost feel millions of tiny things struggling to get inside of him. He could feel them eating through his flesh, their teeth sharp and bloodied, smiling as a sickening, grey goop oozed around them. He could see them, all orange and red and brown, could see their organs floating around endlessly, refusing to die. He felt the snake rear back in retaliation, could feel it sink it's venomous fangs into the intruders, but instead of caring, he rubbed his arm against the ground, barely flinching as his skin rubbed and tore and-

"My master wouldn't be happy, knowing that you're in there." He paused, staring intently at the cracks, watching them turn red. "But he's really happy, all the same. His eyes, they look like _you_."

He dragged his fingers through the red, grinning happily as it smeared on his fingers.

"Percy never made mistakes, you know." Something skittered in the silence. "He was always a bit of a git, but he never made mistakes. What he did was always right for him, even if it was wrong for Mum. My Lord does the same thing, too." He laughed then, but it was weak and caused his throat to ache painfully. "Always right for him, not for everyone else. He thinks he can help me tame her. _Tame her_, like she's a bird."

He laughed again, this time louder, and the snake crawled up his arm and into his shoulder, watching angrily as the little animals ripped through his flesh and buried themselves into his body.

"But she won't die. Not her. Kind of like how _he_ won't die." Slowly, he turned his head towards the other end of the room and smiled. "Are you scared?"

Something shifted, and slowly, he got to his feet and walked over there, shaking slightly. He could see her through the darkness, could see as she pressed herself against the wall, her eyes wide and terrified. Something familiar pressed against the edges of his mind, but angrily, he swatted his away, ignoring the happiness that exuded from his every pore. The girl's hair was matted and dirty, the once pretty blond nothing more than a thick mass of brown. Her skin was covered in filthy dirt, and if he looked hard enough, he could see bits of water and moss stuck in the cuts of her skin. Her clothes were slightly matted and torn, and her feet were bare and filthy. Her nails were chipped and ratty, and something akin to pity flared inside of him, but then the snake bit him, injecting its horrid poison into his body once more, infecting him.

A maniacal glint lit up his eyes.

"Well, are you?"

The girl shook her head, and glanced back and forth around the darkened room.

"You can't lie really well," he said frowning. "But it doesn't really matter, does it?"

Lazily, he crouched in front of her, watching calmly as her breath hitched painfully in her throat, causing her chest to rise and fall rapidly. He could see her pulse jumping in her neck, could taste her fear floating wonderfully in the air, and that same sense of familiarity bit into him once again, making him want to step back.

"It tells a story," he said, poking the moss next to her head. "It's something weird, something that I don't know, but they help me sometimes. They help me figure it out."

The girl's bottom lip quivered.

"It would be nice," he said, pulling his wand from his dirty pocket, "to finally get out of here. They keep telling me that I will, but she doesn't think so."

He looked at her then, watching as her watery blue eyes swirled uncertainly. "You don't think so either, do you?"

She licked her lips then, and leaned forward, her eyes trained on his wand. "I think-"

"Weasley!" someone shouted, the air cracking noisily. "What do you _think_ you're _doing_? Haven't we told you stop talking to-oh. It's just _Loony._"

Her eyes seemed to swirl dreamily, and a small, strange smile appeared on her face.

"Do you know why you're here, _Loony?_"

"Of course I do," she said airily, focusing on the dark robe that the new arrival was wearing. "You-Know-Who wants to take charge of the Rotfang Conspiracy, and Daddy used to be an Auror, you know. But since Daddy died, the only person he really has to turn to is me, knowing that Daddy passed on all of his inside information to-"

"_Loony_," Ron chuckled, staring at her. "Your name is _Loony_."

"Yes," she said simply.

"You know, as lovely as this is," the dark figure said, "We have more important things to do, Weasley and- is that _blood?_"

"They were eating at him," Luna said suddenly, her voice oddly clear. "You can't see them, because their cloaked with invisibility, but they were eating at his skin. The snake tried to kill them, but it didn't work. They're probably buried in his body somewhere, along with the birds and the voices, but-"

"Oh, shut up, Loony," the dark figure said unkindly.

"That was rather rude," Luna opted to say instead. "You should be more careful."

When the figure knelt beside her and Ron, his brown eyes sparkling through white mask on his face, Luna felt oddly peaceful. "Why do _I_ need to be careful? _You're_ the one who's about to _die_."

"Like the birds," Ron said suddenly, a grim smile on his face. "It will feel nice to finally die, won't it Loony?"

When Luna turned her wide, swirling eyes towards him, Ron could almost see a halo of tomatoes floating above her head. Something within him seemed to twist unpleasantly, but instead of listening to it, he pushed it away, back into the darkness of his mind.

He didn't really care for questions, after all.

"Daddy didn't think so," Luna said slowly. "In fact, his mouth seemed to open and his eyes were so wide and filled with tears. You couldn't hear him screaming but he was, and it was so loud, you know. It hurt my ears listening to it, but then I remembered that if you're killed by the Killing Curse, water demons can inhabit your body and take over it, especially if you have a pure-"

"Oh, shut it!" The cloaked figure shouted, slamming his fist into Luna's face.

Her nose cracked loudly and blood gushed unpleasantly down her face. Wearily, she rubbed at the blood, pressing into the wall behind her as the cloaked figure rose to his feet, his long, gnarled fingers gripping Ron's arms tightly. Ron staggered to his feet, turning his gaze on the figure, and sighed. There was a sick sort of resignation coursing through his body, and the voices had retreated, remaining oddly silent. The cracks continued to shift and hum around him, and his focus slipped in and out. He could see the tomatoes rotting above her head, slipping unceremoniously into her filthy blond locks. She didn't seem to mind though, and for a second, he could see the cracks creeping up on her, transforming into snakes as the moss transformed into birds, cawing and pecking unpleasantly. Shifting backwards, he looked down at his arm, watching as his flesh seemed to twist and turn disgustingly, as the infection caused his flesh to become raw and swollen and red. The birds cawed noisily and picked at the raw tomatoes in her hair, their black eyes shining brightly.

"Bloody _hell_," the figure growled unpleasantly. "Both of you are completely _nutters._"

Luna smiled pleasantly.

"It's the birds," Luna said. "Sometimes they die in the sky, and sometimes, they're ripped apart, but it's mostly the birds."

The figure shifted, glancing back and forth between Luna and Ron.

"Why birds?" he asked a second later.

"Because," she said happily. "Birds actually have a choice."

The figure laughed loudly.

"It's not really funny," Luna explained; she was completely unaware that he was mocking her. "Snakes are limited to only living on the ground, as are badgers, you see? But Griffins and Ravens can fly away whenever they choose."

"Griffins aren't birds," the figure said nastily.

"But they have wings," Luna responded, gazing at Ron dreamily. "And they never wonder why that gift has been given to them, at least, not until it has been ripped away from them."

Angrily, the man jerked Ron closer to his side, and glared at Luna for all he was worth.

"Kill her," he spat, drawing his wand. "Kill her now, Weasley!"

Ron blinked, ripping his gaze away from the cracks.

Luna smiled at him prettily.

"But she knows about the birds," he said simply.

"Kill her now, or I'll tell our Lord-"

_'I just don't want to be like him.'_

_'You aren't Percy, Ron!'_

_'But we're all the same, aren't we?'_

"Killing people is silly," Luna continued, waving her hands absently.

_'I know you're dedicated, but for once, can't you just take a break?'_

_Shut up already_.

"Daddy always used to say that when people kill others, it's because they're frightened of them, and that they're just trying to prove to themselves that they aren't scared. But don't you think it's funny, especially since you're just causing them to disappear? It understandable, because mortality is frightening, but it only proves just how weak your are, if you decide to stay grounded instead of choosing to fly, and-"

_'There will be no mercy in his death...'_

_'Death gives no mercy, my pet...'_

_So why is she still alive?_

_Please, take away my pain._

A strange sense of euphoria settled over his mind.

_'Killing people is silly. But they have wings, and Daddy used to be an Auror, and you couldn't hear him screaming, but he was, and-'_

"_Crucio._"

She didn't scream, but she was still loud, and the cracks swallowed her whole, drinking up her blood greedily.

_'It hurt my ears listening to it.'_

He didn't care, but she did, and she refused to cry, clinging to her choice.

"Enough!" the dark figure hissed, pushing Ron out of the way. "Kill her now, or I will!"

_'A mark is still a mark, my pet. It matters not what it means.'_

_'I could make her yours.'_

_'I thought it was virtue. It was really honor. The characters are similar, you see, and-.'_

"I _can't," _he whispered pathetically, clutching his head. "It's _Luna_."

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

_'That was rather rude. You should be more careful.'_

But the cracks swallowed him up anyways, and Luna stared at him, her eyes filled with tears and her mouth open in a silent scream.

_'It hurt my ears listening to it.'_

Yes, it hurts, but it doesn't matter, not anymore.

She had been there, but she had refused to save him.

Just like old times.

* * *

_**January 31, 2000, 10:22 a.m.**_

Grimmauld Place was just as dusty and filthy as she had remembered it.

Everything seemed to have dulled, now that Sirius was gone. It had always been that way, every time Hermione thought to return to Grimmauld Place, and she didn't like it. The air seemed musty and unused, the stairs creaked dramatically, and every time she set foot near the entrance hallway, Mrs. Black continued to shriek disgustingly, her eyes wild and her hair flying. Hermione had almost gotten used to being insulted by the portrait, but she still allowed herself to feel offended. The words still stung regardless of how many times people had called her that.

Sighing, Hermione peeled off her cloak and hung it up on the coat rack, watching as a spider scuttled across the wall.

Such a drab and dreary place. Hermione was almost certain that Mrs. Weasley had stopped coming over to tidy the place up. Glancing around, she could hear people walking noisily up the stairs. She knew that Lupin and Kingsley had to be here, _at least_. Ever since Sirius had died, there was always at least one person puttering around the mansion, looking forlorn and uncomfortable, and ever since her visits had become less and less frequent, Hermione had been startled to discover that it was mostly Lupin who hung around the dusty mansion, looking withdrawn and pallid. Squashing the feeling of discomfort at the thought of Lupin, Hermione turned to her left and walked down the hall, towards the kitchen. A fire was crackling merrily in the den, and a strange sort of happiness seemed to wash over her.

It had been ages since she had allowed herself to feel in charge. Ever since Harry had disappeared, Hermione had felt useless, flopping around her flat, resting poignantly in her hospital bed as the gash over her forehead closed while she slept and as the swelling in her knee and ankle went down. It had been after she had found the strength to stand once again that the idea had entered her mind. She had been cautious about it, and idly, she had flipped through _A Most Complete and Thorough List of Charms of the Last 1,000 Years_, wondering whether or not she should go through with it.

The answer hit her severely over the head as it fluttered meaninglessly to the ground, crumpled and ugly.

She had frowned then, kneeling down to pick up, and sight in front of her caused her eyes to widen and her heart to skip a beat. After all, it couldn't have been right, could it? But then, Hermione had always questioned good fortune when it fell into her lap, especially since everything seemed to like spiraling out of control, and it was all she could do not to burst into tears at the sheer joy of what had happened. It had made perfect sense, now that she had looked at the Charms book, and when she handed the book over to Tonks the very next morning, it had made even more sense. Tonks had been ecstatic about the book, of course ("It's the only one in print. People doubted her because, who's actually able to record the numerous Charms that had evolved over the last 1,000 years?" Hermione had been loathe to admit that Tonks did have a bit of an intellectual creeping out around her, but when she transfigured her nose to look like a Grindylows as she left the Three Broomsticks, Hermione had decidedly lost all respect for the female Auror in an instant). But when Hermione returned back to her flat, something strange had coiled within her.

Her cheeks were flushed with excitement as she thought and planned, but... there was really nothing to be excited about, was there?

After all, if Harry was killed while he was on his stupid little "rescue mission" then Voldemort would do everything in his power to ensure that the wizarding community _knew_ that Harry Potter was dead, and if that was the case, then... _then Voldemort would have the world handed over to him on a silver platter._

Fear clutched at her belly for a quick moment, and a moment later, it had disappeared almost as soon as it had appeared.

McGonagall was the first person that Hermione noticed when she stepped into the kitchen, and a second later, she realized that Lupin and Tonks was there too. Hermione shifted in discomfort, after all, Lupin had been acting a bit strange the last time she had seen him, but... clearing her throat, Hermione moved forward and took a seat at the table. McGonagall looked faintly surprised to see her, if a little disappointed, and Tonks grinned at her. Lupin barely spared her a glance before standing up and moving over to the counter, picking up a bottle of Butterbeer and sliding it across the table towards her.

"Thank you, Professor," Hermione muttered, tapping the bottle with her wand. The top popped off with a strange squealing sound and rolled down the table, towards McGonagall. McGonagall looked at it oddly, as though something painful had just gripped her heart.

"Oh," she said simply, picking up the Butterbeer cap in her hands. "I'm afraid I must be off now. Albus isn't here, Miss Granger, but Nymphadora-"

"_Tonks_," the pink haired witch said, feeling exasperated.

"-and Remus would be more than happy to accommodate you. Good day."

McGonagall pocketed the Butterbeer cap with flourish, and quickly strode out of the kitchen, her face unnaturally pale and taut.

Hermione glanced at Tonks, unable to fully look at Lupin.

Tonks gave Lupin a furtive glance, sensing the tension between the two.

"Wotcher, Hermione," Tonks said pleasantly. "Good to see you're up and about."

"It's good to be up and about," Hermione continued politely. "Do you know where I might be able to find Professor Dumbledore?"

Tonks shook her head.

"Oh, yes, well, he is a very busy person, so I expected nothing else. It's just a bit hard, you understand, trying to figure out if there is anything that I might be able to do in order to help."

Tonks grinned. "The Ministry has been overloading me with work, so this is the first time I've actually been able to relax."

Hermione glanced around the dusty kitchen skeptically, rolling the bottle between her hands and dutifully ignoring the way the yellow liquid sloshed over the sides of the opening.

Tonks laughed happily. "My taste in vacation spots isn't nearly as bad as my taste in-" _Hair color, _Hermione thought viciously, her eyes straying to the pink mess on top of Tonks' head. "-music. Or jobs," Tonks said with a plaintive sniff.

"What did you need to see him for?" Lupin asked suddenly, causing Hermione's eyes to swivel towards him.

Lupin was practically radiating apathy, but instead of giving into her first urge to spill everything to him, Hermione took a swift gulp of her Butterbeer, loving the soft, warm tingle that slid down her throat and through her stomach. Tonks seemed to sense the diversion, and immediately stood, moving over towards the counter and swiping a Butterbeer for herself.

"I have to get back to the Ministry," Tonks said as Hermione and Lupin both looked at her. "But it was a nice little vacation. See you later, Hermione. Remus."

The door shut solidly behind Tonks, and Hermione took another, nervous drink of Butterbeer.

"Hermione-"

"I'm sorry, Professor," Hermione blurted, clutching the bottle tightly in her hands. "It's just that I couldn't take having so many people disappointed in me, and-"

"Hermione," Lupin continued gently, lifting a hand. "It's quite all right."

Hermione could tell that Lupin was far from forgiving, but instead of pressing her apology even further, Hermione sat back mutely, watching as Lupin seemed to mull over things in his head. His gray hair seemed to fall into his eyes in that same, bizarre way that it always did, and for a brief moment, Hermione felt annoyed. What was it with boys and their need to have their hair so distinctly _messy_ all the time? But then she realized how petty she was being, and absently, she ran her fingers through her frizzy hair.

"I feel as though I should apologize for making you uncomfortable as well. It wasn't my intention to invade your personal space-"

"You were hurting my knee a bit, is all," Hermione said, but Lupin waved off that explanation as well.

"Sometimes," Lupin started slowly. "It's easier for me to remember who I am, when there is someone close to me that I can touch."

Hermione's eyes widened guiltily.

"Oh, Professor, I'm-"

"As I said, there is no need to apologize. I relied heavily on Sirius and James, sometimes even Lily, to help me remember that I'm human. Things have just been getting a bit tough for me in the Underground, and there are so many werewolves who are actually becoming like… well, I'm sure you may recall him. He's a prodigy among werewolves, and his name is-"

"Greyback," Hermione answered solemnly, watching as Lupin nodded.

"Yes. Just like Greyback, they are beginning to love the taste of human flesh. So much that it's a bit uncomfortable for me. They're evolving in ways that I can't truly understand."

"It isn't your fault," Hermione answered. "You didn't ask to become a werewolf, and it's my fault for not realizing-"

"You could not have realized because I didn't say a word," Lupin reiterated, his brow furrowing slightly. Hermione could tell that, despite all of his patience, he was beginning to get a bit annoyed. Feeling guilty, Hermione took another sip of her Butter Beer and watched as Lupin continued to think, his eyes unfocused.

"It was harder when I was younger," he continued. "The transformations. It's still difficult, but it's even harder, now that I'm around so many others like me as well. They all have so much rage and madness-" Lupin noticed the imperceptible flinch that Hermione gave."-within them, that it makes me wonder whether or not I'll end up the same way. Most of them are so young, however."

"I didn't know," Hermione answered lamely.

"Of course not," Lupin agreed, eying her Butterbeer bottle closely. "It's difficult to understand certain situations when people continually find the need to keep, ah, _secrets_ when it's vitally important that people need to know _everything_."

Hermione froze then, her eyes narrowing at the accusation within the words. Slowly, she lifted her eyes until they met with Lupin's tired brown ones. She could sense the concern, the burning desire for knowledge lurking beneath the calm, comforting exterior. It was hidden beneath his desire to make her understand, the need to show that he hadn't meant what he was doing, it was merely a slip of conscious. She could feel the familiar niggle within the pit of her stomach, and almost angrily, she took a big gulp of her Butterbeer, nearly choking on it as she swallowed. Lupin was watching her closely, as always, and a familiar sort of dread seemed to wash over her.

He _knew_ that she was keeping something from him. He had known since the moment he left her hospital wing that there was something she had kept from him. Lupin wasn't ignorant, after all. Ron may have been able to read her emotions, but if she had truly wanted to lie, despite all of her wondrous honesty, she could have. Taking another swift gulp of Butterbeer, Hermione wondered how Lupin had seen through it. It couldn't have been the twins, after all, Fred and George had come to her rescue numerous times before, and although they were beginning to loathe her just as much as they loathed all Death Eaters and You-Know-Who, it didn't mean that they refused to appreciate what she had done for them. She had been with Ron, had made him happy, and although she and Ron had their... irreconcilable... differences, Ron had still let her come over, they had still talked, and Hermione had been the last one to see him. She knew that they were aware of what happened, after all, the subtle implication that they had seen them together was enough to send Hermione's mind into overload. But they had kept her secret then, too, and unless Lupin was able to see straight through her lie, the only other way for him to even have _guessed_ that she was lying was-

"I think Harry planned it," Hermione said slowly. "And I think that Blaise Zabini was in on it."

Lupin looked only mildly surprised, and gave her a strange sort of half smile.

"Ah, yes, Dumbledore seems to think so, too."

_Of course,_ Hermione thought snidely. "But if that's the case, then that means that Harry and Zabini-"

"We've thought of that, but so far, there isn't any evidence to support the allegations that Zabini is a Death Eater turned spy."

Hermione thought back to the scribbled note that she had found in the Charms book and silently disagreed.

"Well, then, maybe..."

"Dumbledore thought you might want to take this on yourself, considering how close you are to both Ron and Harry," Lupin answered. "So if you want to, you can. It'll be-"

"I understand that it will be dangerous," Hermione said, slightly offended. "After all, I only started battling Death Eaters when I was _twelve._"

Lupin arched an eyebrow. "Funny, I thought you were sixteen the first time you fought Death Eaters."

When Hermione scowled, Lupin merely smiled and stood.

"Fred and George have been assigned to help you, and when we're not busy working on the Underground, Tonks and I will assist you as well."

Hermione nodded.

"Remember, Hermione, if there is anything that you need help with at all, I will be more than glad to assist you."

Absently, Lupin touched a hand to her shoulder and began leading her out of the kitchen.

"Since you're in charge, you'll be able to give us orders of course." Lupin paused then, a strange expression flitting over his face.

"Stay safe," Lupin said as Hermione pulled her cloak over her clothes. "If Molly loses another child, I don't know what she'd do."

A strange feeling nestled itself inside of Hermione, and before she realized what happened, Lupin had transformed her half-empty Butterbeer bottle into a Portkey. Watching him rush her about was a bit strange, but instead of actually caring, Hermione allowed a small smile to come to her face. She knew that Mrs. Weasley was half dead with worry, but to actually hear someone tell her that Mrs. Weasley was worried about her as well caused the horrible guilt she felt to disperse.

"Oh, yes," Lupin said as an after thought, turning towards her. "Be sure to stop by and visit Ms. Lovegood, as well. I think she'd be happy to have some visitors."

"Um, Professor, I don't know where Luna lives, so-"

"She doesn't live anywhere," Lupin responded, his voice perfectly blank. "If you have any questions, be sure to owl Professor McGonagall. She took care of the burial."

Blankly, Hermione glanced at the bottle of Butterbeer in her hands, suddenly hating it.

"Thank you, Professor."

But as the world dispersed around her, Hermione realized that there was nothing to feel thankful for.

Harry was gone, after all, and there was no one to act the hero.

Not for her, and not for Luna.

_I hate you._

'_Killing people is silly.'_

_I know,_ her thoughts echoed into the darkness. _But that's hardly the point, is it?_

* * *

The River was just as cold as it had always been.

Slowly, he waded through it, his wand hanging limply from his bloodied fingers.

_Killing people is silly,_ a voice whispered. _It hurt my ears listening to it._

"Shut up," he murmured, his throat raw. "Just shut up."

_But we can't_, something answered mockingly. _You're ours, after all, and we can do what we want with you._

"Make it stop."

_Why? It's just another memory to add to the collection._

_But then, that's hardly the point, is it?_


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **Speak Softly (4/?)

**Summary: **War is reason for insanity, and in the face of danger, insanity can be inescapable. A series of vignettes chronicling Ron's, Hermione's, and Harry's lives during the final stretch of the war.

**Pairings:** Ron/Hermione, Harry/Hermione

**Genre:** angst, drama, tragedy, horror, post-hogwarts, pre-HBP (with some elements of HBP added for just a touch of flavor).

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**Note:** I've been in the mood for some Hermione/Blaise, Hermione/Lupin lately, so any romantic implications on those characters parts are unintentional and not going to be a relevant part of the story.

**Edited 6/29/2010: **Minor spelling and formatting errors have been corrected.

* * *

**_February 12th, 2000, 11:34 a.m._**

She had a paper cut on her right index finger.

It was small, and it hardly got in the way of anything, but Hermione had been messy with her ink well that morning. By the time she noticed it was even there, it was stinging ferociously as the ink poured into the tiny wound, flowing prettily through the loops and lines of her fingerprints. But it was small and hardly got in the way of anything, but she had been messy with her ink well that morning.

And she had a paper cut on her right index finger.

Slowly, Hermione blinked, glancing around. She was—somewhere. Somewhere she couldn't remember. There were people around her, pressing against her as they tried to move past her, and for a brief, startling moment, Hermione was almost terrified. But then somewhere turned into someplace, and that someplace was the place that she hated and then some.

She couldn't remember why she had agreed to meet him at Flourish and Blotts of all places—_I never want to set foot inside that vile place again_—and she hadn't, for an entire month. The desire had been there, burning strong, but the stronger it got, the more she detested it until she could no longer detest, but continue to test her patience, even as her fingers itched to grab a book more and more. Feeling oddly, frustrated, Hermione shifted, her elbow brushing gently against some random woman's robes.

The woman didn't even shift, merely allowed her eyes to dart up, and then back down again, towards the floor. Hermione wanted to tell her that staring at the ground was no way to walk, especially since she could run into somebody, but Hermione had had enough run-ins to last her a century, even though she hadn't been alive for a century, and she was really pushing it lately.

She had pushed that inkwell over, after all, even if she hadn't meant to. And it had stung the paper cut on her finger before settling into the groves and dips of her fingerprints. Almost absently, she rubbed her inky fingers together, watching as the ink smudged and thinned. It was—different. Always different, but she couldn't think of why today would be any different than before. It certainly _felt_ different, that much was certain, but she couldn't explain why. Perhaps it was the air—it seemed warmer, not colder, even though that was hardly any consolation.

Was it spring? It was supposed to be spring, wasn't it? She had thought to ask, but never really could, and she was somewhere that she couldn't remember being, and there was a paper cut on her finger. It was small, and hardly got in the way of anything, but she had been messy with her inkwell that morning and—

Hermione took a deep calming breath and shook her head.

It wasn't so hard, really, getting used to everything. She had gone an entire month without Harry insofar, and she had gone twice as long without Ron. So it would be easy. She wasn't weak and she wasn't pitiful, she was something else and they all needed to realize it before—but there wasn't a before, merely a since, because since everything happened, things had been different.

She had a paper cut on her right index finger, after all.

There was frustration, slowly building up in the pit of her stomach. It rose to the surface of her skin, became apparent on her face because there was something different about the day. Something that she couldn't pinpoint, and it hadn't been the air, because the air hardly mattered. Or maybe it did, because it was cold when she had been with Ron, and then she had been with Harry, so she had been with both. But both hadn't been there since—_since when?_

The exact date was unknown to her, had hardly mattered, but there was a paper cut on her finger.

Almost wearily, Hermione rubbed her inky fingers against the fabric of her trousers, wincing as the thin flap of skin pulled back slightly.

_Right, _she thought as blood welled on the pad of her finger. _I remember this._

Because pain was hardly so difficult to remember, and she could remember that she had been in pain that morning. It was almost acute, shooting through her body as quick as could be, and before she realized it, she had been crying. Of course, she couldn't remember why she was crying, but she was doing so all the same, even if she shouldn't have been. It wasn't like she was lonely, after all, just alone, and she had people around her everyday.

Ever since the thirty-first, she had seen Lupin more times than she could count. He always looked more sickly than he did since the last time she saw him—_and there was since again, since everything that happened since had made everything different_—but he was somehow surviving, because he was strong. Stronger than most, at any rate, because Hermione could feel the quiet eating at her every time she was alone. There were things she couldn't remember about it also; she could remember how she got to somewhere and someplace, but if she just looked, she might have realized and…

What had she been doing with ink that morning anyways?

Her brow furrowed and she turned away from the book shop, her fingers rubbing together once again. The greasy ink was still there, stuck on her fingers, and it made everything so slippery and gross, but there had to have been a reason. Paper cuts couldn't make people cry, after all, and definitely not _her_, so why… a little girl with gorgeous brown pigtails darted past her, the rubber of her sneakers streaking mud across the white tops of Hermione's new shoes. The slight pressure startled Hermione, and she turned her mind away from her fingers to watch as the little girl—she had to be about six or seven at the least—moved through the crowd. A moment later, her mother followed with a baby strung across her back, and Hermione almost felt sorry for her as the woman screamed the little girl's name—"Hera, get back here this instant!"—because public squabbles were always embarrassing and uncomfortable.

The mud seemed almost odd against the whites of her shoes, but instead of thinking on it, she moved over to the wrought-iron bench in front of the book store and sat down. The metal was cold against the skin of her arms, but the air was warmer, so it didn't really matter.

She had to think.

It was stupid, really, when she thought about it. It was stupid because she was supposed to remember what she was doing, but she couldn't. She couldn't understand what she had been doing, either, and that began to bother her the longer she sat there. She knew that she had to put her thoughts in some kind of logical order, otherwise she'd never be able to figure out what she was doing or why she was there. For a brief, almost delirious moment, her thoughts circled back around to Harry, because everything always came back to Harry, but…

She had gone a month without him. That was important, and she knew it. She knew it because it had caused her some amount of pain when she woke up that morning. Life was so difficult, especially since she was going through the motions—ever since Ron had disappeared, right along side of Ginny, things between she and Harry had been strained. _That_ memory was like a shining beacon through the night, and Hermione grasped onto it, hoping that she could remember.

They had been distant with each other, because Harry wasn't stupid. He knew that something had happened, and what happened had almost floated right on by, but then Hermione was pulling it apart and dissecting it, because Ron was _insane_, and it wasn't so difficult to remember _that._ Distantly, Hermione could feel her hands moving over the tops of her thighs, and she could see the greasy ink leaving ugly black markings all over her tan trousers.

It hurt, thinking of the insanity, just as thinking of the loss did. She didn't care so much about Ginny anymore, after all, Hermione was certain that Ginny knew, too. Ginny wasn't stupid. But Harry wasn't stupid, either, and he was aware that something happened. Something that wasn't supposed to happen. But it had, and Hermione had been weak, and why, after a month and a half later was she remembering this _now_?

Because she had gone a month without Harry, and even longer without Ron, and she was missing them both. (_But Ron, more so than Harry, because she had always missed Ron more than she ever missed Harry, and there was something wrong with that thought, something she should have realized, but couldn't. She loved them too much, anyhow._)

Harry had left to find Ginny. Hermione felt so angry knowing that he would just leave her at the drop of a hat, because that devotion couldn't have been for _Ron_. Even though Harry had been upset, he hadn't been nearly as upset as _she_ had been, and now, she was so busy trying to find Harry, and—

She had a paper cut on her right index finger.

_Oh_, Hermione thought, staring at her barely smudged fingers once again. _Oh._

She shifted slightly on the bench, felt the parchment crinkle in her pocket, and before she even realized was she was doing, she pulled it out and unfolded it. Ink was blotted all over the piece of parchment, and on the right hand corner of the sheet, there was a tiny stain of blood. Hermione's eyes widened in near shock before she began to scan the writing on the page. It was a beautiful elegant script, one that she had seen only once before, and could remember so well. It had taken her by surprise, after all, receiving that letter so early in the morning, and now that she thought about it, she could remember. She could remember the taste of the floo in her mouth as she was spat out in the fireplace at The Leaky Cauldron. Could remember tapping the bricks and stepping into Diagon Alley. Could remember the dread she felt at having to go to the one place that she had sworn never to go to again, only to find herself standing there once more.

There was a hurried pace to her thoughts as Hermione crumpled the note in her hand—_Glad you made the connection. Flourish and Blotts, eleven forty-five_—and shoved it into her pocket, standing shakily. Yes, she remembered why she was there _now_, and dear Merlin, was it already eleven forty-three? She pushed past the people in her way; a middle-aged man with untidy brown hair and a mustache turned and gave her a filthy look, but didn't say a word as she continued on into the bookstore.

The air smelled like paper and ink, just as it always had, and Hermione liked that. She liked it because it was familiar, and although the library at Hogwarts had smelled of paper, ink, and dust, it was still a welcome smell. Hermione thought back to the last time she had been there, noticed the young witch at the register giving her a once over as she headed through the arches towards the back of the store.

Yes, she remembered it _now_, but why hadn't she remembered it before? There was no reason why she shouldn't have, but as she stepped in front of the store, all she could think of was why she had that blasted paper cut on her fingers and… Hermione's eyebrows furrowed and she pursed her lips, unhappy with the situation. She passed through the Arithmancy section first, wondering at the sudden vacancy of the section. Ancient Runes came second, full and bursting, and there was always so much to study when it came to Runes. Of course, she had always resented Runes ever since—but since was where it began and end, so there was nothing about since because since made no sense and—

"You're late."

Startled, Hermione jerked forward and nearly fell over her ankle before righting herself. She blinked, her hands flying out to grip on of the book shelves as her eyes found the very person she went there for. For a moment, she could feel her tongue cement itself to the roof of her mouth, but she remembered the cool acceptance on his face, as well as the threat that had been there so many times before. Her chest still ached from where his arm had slammed against her breast bone, and she figured that he had derived some sort of sadistic pleasure out of that. Hell, it was _Zabini_, and even though he stayed in the woodwork instead of coming to the forefront, there was always something distinctly uncomforting about being around him. Seeing him standing there, leaning so nonchalantly against the bookshelf opposite her, his arms folded across his chest and his obsidian eyes narrowed in her direction was enough to make her want to back up a couple steps and wonder why she had even agreed to it in the first place.

But his skin was pretty and dark, and for a moment, she wanted to reach out and touch it, but beacons in the night warned her off, and she remembered.

"I forgot," she answered simply, the heat rising to her face.

Zabini watched her for another moment, and Hermione could see something turning in his mind. Something unpleasant and frightening, and she knew that when he spoke, she wouldn't want to be there. But it was too late, even as her mind was taking stock of everything around her—Zabini had opted out of wearing robes that day, and she could see his wand sticking out of the side pocket of his black trousers. His shirt was folded up to his elbows, and his collarbone was slightly exposed. It was—different, seeing him that way. But of course he'd have to be different, because if he dressed any other way—_and his shoes were shiny and pretty, almost like his skin, but his skin wasn't nearly so shiny—_people would have recognized him and that would have been catastrophic.

Being within a three foot radius of him was catastrophic, in and of itself, but Zabini knew where Harry was, and he had _volunteered_ on top of it, so who was she to refuse him?

Hermione shoved her hand in her pocket and fingered the length of her wand, just in case.

"How did you forget?" Zabini asked, and the sound of his voice was so startling that Hermione jerked away from the bookshelf.

"What?" she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. Zabini's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say a word. When what he said fully filtered in her mind, she could feel the heat rushing to the surface, and she was almost positive that her hair was getting frizzier by the second. "Oh, um, I just… that's highly irrelevant to the matter at hand."

Zabini sneered, and suddenly, Hermione found herself on familiar ground once more.

"Not that it's any of your _business_, anyways," she added, crossing her arms huffily. "Besides, if I recall correctly, you were the one who contacted me, so I suggest you get on with it before I hex you."

Zabini's lips curled into a nasty smile, and Hermione almost shrank back. That smile terrified her.

"I don't think you're really in the position to be making demands, Granger," Zabini replied, unfolding his arms. He shifted his weight slightly, and his hand dropped down to his pocket. Hermione tracked the motion, knowing just as well as Zabini that he _was_ proficient with a wand, even if she _was_ superior, and something tightened in her stomach. "Don't worry, mudblood, I'm not going to _hurt_ you."

Hermione found that hardly reassuring.

"But it is rather idiotic of you to just walk willingly to a Death Eater. And all by yourself, at that. I knew Gryffindors were pathetically stupid, but I didn't expect _you_ to be so ignorant."

Hermione pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, but refused to comment. "Why did you ask me here, Zabini?"

Something in his eyes changed then, and he shifted again, his arms moved to fold back over his chest.

"You want to know where Potter is, don't you?"

Hermione frowned. "Yes."

"And I have it on good authority that you're heading the group that's looking for him—" Alarm bells sounded off in her mind at that statement, but she couldn't bring herself to ask who said anything. Snape, perhaps, because Snape knew everything and told everything. He was a _spy_, after all, so of course he had to lie and trick and deceive, but… "And as it stands, I happen to know where he is."

Something akin to fear soured the look on Hermione's face then; if Zabini knew where Harry was, then there was absolutely no way that he could be safe, no way that Harry could not be captured. _But if that's the case, _she thought_, then why hasn't Voldemort said anything_?

There was more to it, though. More to everything, more to Zabini. He shifted his arms then, and Hermione could see it on the underside of his left forearm, bright and hideous and black, burned into his arm, but not. The tattoo almost seemed to sneer mockingly at her, and she could hear it—_and you will be delivered through the darkness, in pieces_—the fear and darkness rising to consume her and torture her and Ginny had already fallen victim to it once, so why should _she_? But then Zabini was folding down his sleeves and buttoning them at the cuffs, a blank look on his face.

"Focus, Granger," Zabini answered, looking somewhere over her head. "I know where Potter is, but since he's gone being _Potter_, I need someone else to help me."

"… help… you?" Hermione asked, her mind suddenly blank and unable to make the connection.

"_Yes_, Granger, _help._ What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" Zabini's eyes were narrowed at her, with annoyance and irritation, and something else she couldn't quite place, but something was _different, _because the image of the Dark Mark was still in her head. Only it wasn't, because there was something else, something to do with voices and Ron, and a cold dark place that she couldn't _quite place_. But it was quite quiet, if only a bit terrifying, and—

"_Granger!_" Zabini snapped, and Hermione blinked, turning her attention to his face. It was only then that she realized she hadn't been staring at his arm, but into nothing. Irritation was more than just a passing emotion on Zabini's face; it seemed to have taken control because he moved over to her and grabbed her roughly by her elbows, slamming her into the book case behind her. The shelves rattled almost imperiously, and oh Merlin, how Hermione could remember _this_, and—

"Let me go," Hermione said dangerously as she pushed against him, her eyes flashing. Blaise was off her in an instant, backing up into the bookcase behind him, but before anything could be said, Hermione was reaching forward again and grabbing him by the elbow, dragging him further back, further in. The Charms section would have been ideal, but it was still too close to the entrance, so she moved them back towards the Astronomy section, which was just as small as the Divination section and kept on the same shelves. Zabini stayed quiet for a moment, but as soon as Hermione came to a stop, he was pulling roughly away from her and rubbing at his nose; the scent of dust and paper and ink was so strong there, it almost reminded Hermione of Hogwarts once again. But there was also something sour about it that she didn't want to place, so she didn't, instead collecting herself.

She couldn't keep forgetting herself.

"Where's Harry?" she snapped, whirling on him.

"Manchester," Zabini answered simply, folding his arms again. Hermione opened her mouth, ready to fire off more question, but Zabini jerked his head and sneered at her, his lips curling unpleasantly. "Relax, mudblood. Your half-blood isn't going to disappear anytime soon. He's _safe._"

"But—" Hermione began angrily, only to be silenced by another vicious look from the tall, dark-skinned man.

"Do learn to keep quiet," Zabini interrupted, his obsidian eyes flashing. "If you want me to answer any more of your questions, that is." Blaise paused, waited a moment, but when Hermione remained silent—however unwilling it might have been—he continued, a slight lilt to his words. "That's a good mudblood. Potter's taught you well."

"You're beginning to sound a lot like Malfoy, Zabini," Hermione snapped, her fingers curling into her palms. "Now, either you tell me what you brought me here to say, or I'll—"

"I want your help, Granger," Zabini interrupted. "But just _your_ help. This is strictly to stay between you and I. You are not reveal my name, where we met, or my intentions, is that clear?"

Hermione nodded jerkily, before she could even stop to think what it meant. Zabini looked slightly disgusted at how quick she was to consent, but it didn't matter. If he double crossed her, and Hermione was sure that he would, at one point, she would deal with it then. But this was about Harry, and how had he managed to get all the way to _Manchester_?

"I'm not so stupid to think that you don't want something in return. What, exactly, do you get out of helping me to find Harry?" Hermione asked, wiping her palms against the thighs of her trousers; they had been getting sweaty.

Zabini stayed quiet for a long, long moment and then he gave a jerky shrug of his shoulders. "Potter and I have already made a deal, and I'm upholding that part of the deal."

"So what do you want from—"

"I'll think of it when the time comes," Zabini replied, and when Hermione's face went red, he sneered at her. "I have better things to do than solicit sexual favors from mudbloods, _Granger._"

"That's not—" Hermione snapped, only to taper off, because she knew it would have been a lie. Zabini gave her a smile, but there was nothing playful about it. Hermione could see the malice creeping just below the surface, ready to lash out at her. "_Fine_," Hermione snapped. "But you have to—"

"You're not in the position to be making demands, Granger," Zabini responded, and Hermione glared at him. "I'll answer five questions, and after that, what you do and do not do with the information will be the deciding factor in whether I decide to defect entirely."

Hermione stared at him, startled for one long moment, because there was no way that he would just… and all on her? But then… Hermione closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples, letting out a long deep sigh. If Zabini did defect entirely, then she would have a valuable asset on her side, even if she had to be very secretive about the entire ordeal. She had been with Lupin a lot as of late, and already, there were suspicions about where Harry might be, but… no one had ever guessed he would be in Manchester. It just… didn't make any sense. What was in Manchester? But that wasn't the most intelligent question to ask, and she only had five choices, and she didn't want to waste them.

"Where's Harry headed?" Hermione asked, and Zabini's lips twitched in amusement.

"From Manchester, he's headed to Lancaster, then Carlisle. From there, he'll continue to head towards Scotland. I'm not entirely sure why he's chosen Scotland, but his final destination is the Isle of Skye."

Hermione brows furrowed. "The Isle of Skye? What—wait, no never mind." Hermione paused again, trying to find the right question, but all the questions that came to her mind were just superficial ones—it didn't take cleverness to figure out why Harry was headed in that direction, only that Ginny was there. She had to be, because Harry would never… closing her eyes briefly, Hermione pressed her fingers to her temples once again. An ache was building up, unpleasant and uncomfortable, and she was getting tired of experiencing it. Everything was just too much. One month away from Harry and already… the pain in her chest flared brightly, but before she could allow herself to feel weak, her mind latched onto the first thing it came across, and the words were already spilling past her lips and into the open air between them.

"Why has Voldemort Marked Ginny?"

And that was apparently the right question, because Zabini was smiling again, more pleasant than the last time, and Hermione couldn't help but notice it. His long fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, his hands sliding from his upper arms down to his forearms. For a second, he squeezed, and then he dropped his hands down to his sides and shoved them in his pockets. His wand shifted forward.

"Because she cheated death," he replied.

And Hermione was flummoxed. Because there was no way that Ginny could have cheated death, and the question was out of her mouth before she could stop it or take it back. "What? When?"

"One and seven," Zabini answered, as though it were so obvious. The numbers meant nothing to Hermione, and she was almost positive that Zabini was aware of this, but instead of saying anything, she just pressed her hands to her eyes, frustrated. She had always known that Voldemort was interested in immortality, and yes, that made sense that he would want Ginny. But she couldn't have cheated death because she has been alive for so long, and—

Her heart felt like it was in her throat, and it was all Hermione could do not to choke on it.

"So then why did he take Ron, then? Because if I remember correctly, Ron never, he couldn't, and…" _Killing people is silly, it hurts my ears listening to it._

Lights exploded in front of Hermione's eyes, and she staggered backwards, her hands gripping the dusty shelves tightly.

_Bleed for us, mortal. You shall be our sacrifice._

"_She bleeds our blood._"

"_You do not belong here._"

It was cold, so cold, but the lights dimmed down to something more bearable, and she felt hands digging into her shoulders. Sharp bony hands and long fingers and—_bone protruded from the torn flesh, but the rivulets of crimson she had expected to see were absent, unnoticeable_—dark, beautiful skin that she found herself drawn to. Almost immediately, her hands were moving, and she was gripping the hands… the skin was soft and gorgeous, not the same, rough callused hands that she could half-remember, but forget, and it took her moment to realize that the hands were connected to arms that were connected to a body that was connected to face and a face went with a name.

Hermione's eyes widened, and she pressed herself into the bookshelf, trembling slightly.

"Bleeding hell," Zabini murmured a second later as Hermione came back to herself. She could still feel his hands on her shoulders, even if he was still where he had been before—_how does he move so fast, he shouldn't be able to move so fast—_but that was irrelevant, because it didn't matter. "What the hell are you blathering on about, Granger?"

Hermione took a quick shallow breath and shoved her hands into her pockets. "Me—I—Ron. I was… I was asking about Ron."

Zabini continued to look at her skeptically for a moment, but he didn't say a word. Merely shrugged his shoulders and looked away. "I suggest you figure Weasley out on your own. The Dark Lord refuses to say anything."

"But the Dark Lord does have him, right? I mean he's safe and he won't be hurt and—oh, Merlin, is he _Marked_?" The panic was almost suffocating her, but instead of answering her, Zabini shook his head and turned away from her.

"I would use that last question a bit more wisely, if I were you."

"But—" And of course, he made sense, even if everything else didn't. The frustration was mounting once again, as it did every time she couldn't focus on herself, but that hardly mattered. No. What mattered was… was…

"How can I use this information to benefit the Light?" Hermione asked, and Zabini's dark, sarcastic smirk almost had her wanting to take back the question.

"You… you really are a very clever witch, Granger." Zabini gave a small, tired laugh then, and shook his head. A moment of silence passed, Hermione waiting for an answer, but Zabini refusing to give one, and the desperation was almost overwhelming. But then Zabini straightened up and reached into his pocket, pulling forth a piece of wrinkled parchment.

"You use it against the Dark Lord," Zabini said, and his hand was warm as he pressed the parchment into her palm. Hermione's fingers curled around it, and she could feel the press of his warm skin against the tips of her fingers.

It was a strange moment, one that seemed to linger far more than necessary, but then Zabini was stepping away from her, his obsidian eyes focused on something that wasn't just her. She thought to ask, but she had already asked her five questions, and suddenly, he was walking away and towards the entrance. It only took a moment, but the quite jingle of the bell over the door, and the slight bustle of the world outside echoed throughout the entire store.

And then, there was nothing. Nothing except Hermione in the quiet and the strange tingling warmth of her palm. Frowning, Hermione jerked her hand toward her chest and then away; it was too strange, too weird for her to comprehend. So she wouldn't. She had always been good at avoidance after all, and she could avoid all things like the strange tingling in her palm and the way she seemed to forget herself for another moment there, until her eyes lit upon the parchment in her hands.

Hermione licked her lips anxiously and unfolded the parchment. It crinkled nicely in her fingers, but it didn't cut her, not like his note earlier did. And there was no ink there to spill or to get in her tiny cuts that proved that she needed a contingency plan, because forgetting herself was quite silly to begin with (_just like killing people, always like killing people_). She didn't need the delays.

Zabini's script was neat and elegant, just as it had been before, but instead of the short, curt message that she had received the first time, there was something else. Something… vague. Something so irritatingly vague she thought she would scream and cry and actually give into the things she couldn't quite remember, because she didn't quite belong there in the first place (they had told her so, after all). But instead she shoved the note into her pocket and stormed through bookshop, her lips thinned in annoyance, the words still bouncing around in her mind.

_Inferior without minds, but spurred by blood and the need to be whole—muggleborns aren't the only ones used as sacrifices._

She was going to _kill_ Zabini.

He should have known that she hated bloody riddles.

She was on the side of the Light, after all, and that had to speak for itself.

But he had called her clever, and it had made some sense, so no matter how angry she was then, she would remember at some point or another that it was all about cleverness. Death Eaters never gave straight answers, anyhow.

**_January 13th, 2000, 11:24 a.m._**

He dreamed of Ginny again.

It was sad, and slightly pathetic, he admitted to himself, but ever since he had seen her disappear in a swirl of black and red, all he could remember was the look of fear on her face as the Death Eaters swarmed around her. It preyed on his mind every second of every day, the fact that he had been there and hadn't been able to do anything about it. And he had been there waiting, to boot. Waiting for Ginny to walk up those steps towards Gringotts, to have her brow furrowed in utter frustration at having not been able to find anything. Or glee—it would have been nice, knowing that Ron hadn't gone very far, but he knew not to get his hopes up. It always happened to the people he cared about, after all. _Always._

It had been hard enough, dealing with it before. Ginny's sudden disappearance from Hogwarts was something that had been so difficult to handle; he had loved her then, more than anything. For a little over a year and a half, it had been nothing but he and Ginny, despite the fact that she was still in school. They had kept up correspondence, had met during Hogsmeade weekends, during holidays and vacations. It had been perfect then. Easy. But then Ginny had been taken, taken away from the one place she was supposed to be safest at, and it was all Harry could do not to scream.

It was his fault, after all.

The anger and the hate burned brightly within him, the guilt festering disgustingly beneath the surface, and all he could do was blame himself. Hermione and Ron had tried their hardest to get him to stop, had done everything possible to get his anger to abate, but it wasn't until months later when he saw the bitter look on Ginny's face that the hate dispersed. If Harry wasn't with Ginny, then it hardly mattered if she was in pain; she was safe. He had felt pain, too, the mere days after her graduation. Had felt it clawing through him without remorse as he spoke those vindictive, hurtful words towards her. It hadn't been nearly as malicious as he had wanted it to be, but the simple fact that he was leaving her was malicious enough as it was.

But she hadn't cried. And for that, Harry was happy. If Ginny had been anyone other than who she was, he would have been tempted to stay with her at the mere sight of tears, but Ginny just gave him that bitter, ugly smile and walked away. Told him that she didn't need him to save her. She was right, of course. Just like Hermione, she knew herself better than anyone, and she was right. Had always been, no matter how much he didn't want to admit it. But even though he had tried saving her then, and even though it had worked for _two whole years_, it had somehow managed to change. The protection that Harry had thought he placed around her by distancing himself from her had failed, and Ginny was gone. Once again, she was back in the hands of Death Eaters, of _Voldemort_, and there was no telling what he would do to her. Harry prayed that she was still alive, that she was safe, and he knew that she wasn't. They were going to break her, just as they had done last time; they were going to maim and torture her, and just like before, Harry was going to hate himself. What good had leaving her done? What was the point of throwing that little bit of happiness away if it was just going to get thrown back into his face? What was the point of trying to protect the people he loved, when he knew, without a doubt, that Voldemort was just going to find some way to hurt them. To hurt _Harry_?

But his pain didn't matter. Not anymore. It was just Ginny. Finding Ginny; that was his main goal. His obligation. If he were to find Ginny then… the resentment coursed through him once again, and his fingers ached as they dug into his palms.

He had done everything possible to get her back. Had done something that he, never in his life, had expected to do, and it had _worked._ Just hours before, he had done the one thing that no one would have ever expected him to do, just to find Ginny. The disgust he felt as the gold slipped from his hands into hands darker and more elegant than his continued to linger in the recesses of his mind, taunting him, plaguing him. He could almost hear the whispered promises, too. The deals that were sure to backfire because who in their right mind would _ever_ trust a _Death Eater?_ But Dumbledore had trusted Snape, and Harry was almost certain that his Death Eater was in the same boat that he was wanting out just as Snape had and… despite the fact that Dumbledore trusted Snape, Snape was still untrustworthy, and _Zabini _would be _too._

But still, there was something about Zabini that had made it so easy for him to make the deal. Perhaps it had been the way in which Zabini held himself, so cool and collected, as though he were unreachable. But almost as soon as he had stepped into Flourish and Blotts, Harry had sensed the tension radiating off of him, the complete and utter abject fear that he was about to face.

And he hadn't said a word.

Nott had been with him, anyhow.

It would have been stupid, blowing Zabini's cover. Would have been stupid, calling out to him, trying to go back on what was promised. So he merely picked up a Quidditch magazine, immersing himself in the one thing that was so him, but so not, choosing, instead, to watch. It had only taken a few minutes, but Nott was skulking out of the bookshop and meandering towards Harry so carelessly, that he had almost been impressed with Zabini. _Almost._ There was still so much that they had to do, so many things that had to be done, that Harry was almost afraid that Zabini would fail. But mere minutes after Nott had appeared in the front of the bookstore, a loud crack sounded throughout the store, startling everyone. It didn't take Nott long to realize what was going on; he had disappeared within seconds. The pink-haired witch at the register frowned before standing up and moving towards the back of the store, appearing a minute later with Hermione in tow and—it had taken everything in him not to jump up with worry at the sight of her tear-stained face, so instead, he pretended to be reading the magazine once again. Pretended that he hadn't noticed the angered glare that Hermione sent his way, pretended that he hadn't noticed the reason for them arriving. And he had pretended to be stupid, too. Pretended like he hadn't known that Zabini was the reason why Hermione had vowed to never return there again, even after she had finished her exchange with the owner of the store.

Sighing slightly, Harry ran his fingers through his bangs, rubbing at his scar out of habit.

His plan had worked. He knew that Death Eaters were stupid, but he hadn't expected them to be _that_ ignorant. Only seconds after they had all screamed Reducto at the store, Harry had gone out, had attempted to battle them, only to fall a minute later. He had heard Hermione scream, had seen the building begin to collapse down on her, and all he could do was hope that Zabini had come through on that front, too. He heard the tell-tale signs of the Death Eaters Disapparating away from the scene, the loud crack of Aurors showing up at the scene, and the last thing he remembered was Zabini grabbing the collar of his shirt and jerking him to his feet before they both disappeared completely.

Giving another impatient sigh, Harry grabbed his glasses from off the night stand next to the moth eaten bed he was currently residing in. The air around him was musty and slightly dank, but despite that fact, he didn't say a word. Almost methodically, he wiggled his toes and his fingers, attempting to rid himself of the pins and needles that were currently attacking him, trying to ward away the numbness, but as soon as his feet touched the ground, he let out a sharp yell, catapulting himself back onto the bed.

"Bloody hell," Harry groaned, rubbing at the sudden ache that spread across the balls of his feet. He glanced around the room once more, hating the fact that Zabini wasn't even kind enough to supply him with the slightest heating charm before snatching up his wand and trying the spell. It took at least three tries before the stones beneath his feet were warm enough to stand on, and even then, he could feel the cold slowly seeping through the spell. Irritated, he wandered towards the worn and battered wardrobe positioned directly across from his bed and threw it open; only a few patchy robes were hanging in there, along with one incredibly misplaced fur coat, and Harry almost groaned. His clothes felt grimy against his skin, but he was almost certain that the bathroom would be twice as bad as his sleeping chambers. Tiredly, he shut the door of the wardrobe and turned towards the window, almost wincing at the muck and scum that clouded his view of the outside world, but it was enough. The sun was peeking slightly through the grey clouds, leaking in through the muck of his windows.

Slowly, he padded towards the door to his bedroom, the door creaking open slightly as he peered into the dimly lit hallway. Even though his room was bad, Harry hadn't really expected the rest of the little shack to be just as dingy. When he had first arrived, he hadn't really had time to gauge his surroundings. All he knew was that Zabini had transported him somewhere outside of London and placed him in a particularly run-down house. Harry almost snorted at the fact… if it could even be called a house, to begin with. He wasn't even sure that people knew the damned little shack existed anymore. It wasn't that Zabini had placed it under any protections; the place was so bad to look at, that people forgot it even existed.

Heaving a large sigh, Harry rubbed at his scar once again before padding down the hallway, wincing every fifth step as the cold managed to sting the bottom of his feet. When he finally found out where he was, Harry was _so_ going to kill Zabini. Putting him to sleep didn't mean he had to make off with his socks and trainers _also. _Although, when Harry thought about it, it was a bit maternal, really, making sure that Harry was comfortable as he could be. But then again, Harry never really understood the minds of Death Eaters.

Frowning as he came to the top landing of the stairs, he glanced down towards the foyer, noticing the dust that coated the walls and the floor. A spider scuttled over his fingers as he gripped the banister, and once again, Harry was ready to groan. Just what kind of hellhole had Zabini landed him in? Of course, in retrospect, it had been his own fault. He had been the one to agree to the conditions that Zabini put forth, after all. Had been the one to give him an awkward, uneasy smile as he gave the dark-skinned teenager his word that he would uphold his end of the deal. Of course, the terms were hardly reassuring, considering the fact that Zabini could double-cross him at any moment, but… but the former Slytherin had gotten him this far already, and until Harry could go forth on his own without needing to rely on Blaise Zabini, then he would just have to trust him. Regardless of the fact that Harry really, really didn't want to.

The first room Harry stumbled across was a small living room with two small, threadbare couches positioned rather awkwardly in the middle of the room. The stuffing was brown and filthy as it spilled from the tears in the couches arms, but that hardly mattered to Harry. He wouldn't be sitting on the couches anytime in the near future. Hopefully, he'd be in and out of the house before noon.

The next room was far cleaner and looked as though people had actually _lived _in it. There was a mahogany desk positioned in the middle of the room with papers scattered all over them. A cup of cooling tea was positioned on the corner of the desk, along with a tea set and a tin of biscuits. Harry merely stared for a moment, his mouth formed into a little 'O' of wonder. Bookcases lined the walls, filled to the brim with thick tomes, and even though Harry wanted nothing more than to find Zabini and get the hell out of that dingy little place, his curiosity got the better of him. Slowly, he crept towards the desk, making sure not to step on any loose floorboards as he leaned over the front of the desk.

"Looks like Arithmancy," Harry muttered as he picked up the parchment, tilting it in every possible direction. For one, brief moment, Harry was slightly tempted to steal the pages; he could always have them sent off to Hermione, after all. And just because he was doing his best to help Zabini, it didn't necessarily mean that he had to trust Zabini. And if the former Slytherin was idiotic enough to leave important information lying around for anyone to pick up, then he was well in the right to have it sent off to Hermione.

Quickly, he folded the parchment up and shoved it into his pocket and was ready to turn around when something caught his eye. Turning, he pushed the stack of parchments over, fingering the gold lettering on the book. It was thick and large, bound with black leather. It was ripped in some places, and he could feel something stiff and hard under the black leather, but disregarded it for a moment.

Curious, Harry hefted the book into his hands and started flipping through the pages. They were old and worn, some of the edges torn, just as the leather on the front of the book was ripped. His eyes took in several phrases, none of which held any importance to him. But still, he was curious. Closing the book, he gazed at the title, his brow furrowing slightly as he tried to make sense of it.

Flipping the book back open, he turned to the first page, and began reading.

_Asphillis Adelbrandt (1888-1944) was born from a long line of theoreticians, specializing in the joint application of Divination and Arithmancy. While Adelbrandt's father focused on the lesser, more popular forms of Divination, such as astrology, crystallomancy, numerology, and cartomancy, Adelbrandt focused his efforts on the darker forms of Divination, such as Haruspication, Oneiromancy, and Necromancy. It was his belief that all forms of Divination had a numerological application that could assist someone without 'The Eye' to make a thorough and accurate reading on the impending—_

"Find something interesting, Potter?"

Harry jumped, the book snapping shut in his hands as he whirled around to face the newcomer. Zabini was leaning against the door jamb, watching Harry through narrowed eyes. His arms were crossed over his chest as he watched Harry blink and try to work through the mess he knew he was bound to be in, but it hardly mattered. If Zabini was ignorant enough to leave this things laying around, then it only made sense that Harry was intelligent enough to snoop. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Harry sent the book down behind him, and leaned forward, watching as his toes curled slightly against the cold.

"So…" Harry began uncertainly, glancing down at Zabini's shoes. "Er—where have you been?"

Zabini shifted slightly, lifting one shoulder and dropping it. "Granger's been admitted to St. Mungo's," he answered instead.

Harry's heart gave a swift jerk, and he stared at Blaise, wide-eyed, not wanting to believe the worse. "I—is she—you said she'd be safe!"

Zabini sneered. "I was under the impression that Granger no longer mattered to you Potter."

Harry's hands clenched at his sides, and it was all he could do not to launch himself at the Death Eater. He could feel the rage bubbling from below the surface, itching to break free, but instead he tried his hardest to reign it in, to keep in control. If he lost it now, Merlin knew what kind of condition he'd come back to find Hermione in. Besides, Zabini was partially right; Hermione no longer mattered. There were other things she needed to focus on, and Ginny and Ron weren't one of them. No, that was left to him.

"Sod off," he hissed, rocking back on his feet.

Zabini merely smirked.

Silence settled uncomfortably over the two males momentarily, Harry shifting back to lean against the desk as Zabini remained upright. It was almost odd, the way that Harry couldn't be bothered to look into the dark, obsidian depths that were Zabini's eyes, but in the same token he wanted to. Wanted to know if he would find the same, wicked pleasure that came with being a Death Eater. Wanted to know if Zabini did plan on double-crossing him, wanted to know if he—frowning, Harry turned his attention back towards Zabini, focusing his eyes on the tiny little scar above his eyebrow hoping the Death Eater wouldn't notice.

He did.

"You have five questions, Potter," Zabini said suddenly, his lips curling up into a malicious smirk.

Harry asked the first one that came to his mind.

"Where's Ginny?"

The parchment was heavy in his pocket.

* * *

**_February 14th, 2000, 12:32 p.m._**

Hermione found Lupin at Grimmauld Place as always, looking sick and gray and absolutely lonely. For a quick moment, she wanted to reach a hand out to comfort him, but the feeling dissipated as she remembered just exactly she had stopped by Headquarters to do. The bag of chocolate frogs, licorice wands, and pumpkin pasties seemed heavy in the pocket of her robes, but she ignored it, even though its purpose was laced with bad intentions.

Lupin was sitting at a desk in the lounge, bent over a book, his long graying hair hanging over his face. Hermione knew that Lupin was aware of her presence almost as soon as she stepped into the room, but she waited quietly until he closed the book and pushed it to the side, long delicate fingers moving his hair out of his face. Lupin offered her a kind smile, and made to stand, but Hermione shook her head and took a step forward, offering a kind smile of her own.

"Hello, Professor," she said quietly. "I hope I'm not interrupting—"

"Not at all," Lupin answered tiredly. "Just catching up on some reading. I haven't really had time to read anything lately."

The sentence was so heavy in the air that Hermione couldn't keep herself from sitting. Her toes curled and cracked in her tennis shoes, and her knees popped as she stretched them out, but Lupin didn't say a word.

She was just glad to have gotten away. Glad because she was tired of racking her mind for answers, only to forget, and perhaps Lupin—riddles were made for mad people, people who were clever beyond imagination, and although Hermione was extremely clever, she wasn't nearly as intelligent as people twice her age. Not _nearly._

"I… I've bought myself some chocolate, if you'd like some," Hermione offered up plaintively, and it was then that she saw Lupin's eyes widen slightly. It was almost comical, the way she made the connection. Yes, she had seen people walking about being particularly… affectionate, but it was only when Lupin brought attention to it that she realized it. The thought of Harry being gone and not there to share that little bit of respite with her was almost saddening, but instead she pulled her bag of candy out of her pocket and set it neatly on the desk, smiling a bit sadly.

"Hermione," Lupin started, only to be cut off by a wave of Hermione's hand.

"Don't worry, Professor," Hermione answered, opening the bag and pulling out a Pumpkin Pasty. "I'm quite used to being single." And that was a lie in and of itself, because only shortly after breaking up with Ron, she was _with Harry_, and weren't rebounds supposed to end quickly, not delve so close to marriage? But it was something that she would have to live with anyways, because while she had been unfaithful, Harry _hadn't_, although his sudden need to chase after Ginny could have been seen as unfaithful in and of itself—they could have found her together.

Pursing her lips, Hermione eyed the small orange cake in front of her before dragging her teeth over the hardened frosting, barely registering the slight chill it sent up her spine. Lupin hesitated for a moment before pulling out a licorice wand—a sour, strawberry flavored one, which surprised Hermione to no end—and licked the sugar from the sides. They sat in companionable silence, eating cakes and licorice until Lupin finally got tired of waiting for Hermione to speak. She knew when it had happened as well; Lupin shifted and jerked on the end of his licorice wand, snapping it in half. She could see the annoyance in the movement, in the way his amber eyes moved over her in an irritated fashion, but before Lupin could say what was on his mind, Hermione was smiling and storing the bag of goodies back into her pocket.

She had a half eaten Chocolate Frog in her hands, and one of its legs was still squirming, even though the raspberry filling was leaking out onto Hermione's knuckles.

"I know where Harry's headed," Hermione said bluntly. Lupin paused, and the reason for Hermione's oh-so-kind gift seemed to make sense.

"Ah," Lupin answered. "I see." He paused then, waited for Hermione to say more, but she didn't. "Where is he?"

"He's probably already reached Lancaster, but from there, he'll be headed to Carlisle. After that, it's Scotland and wherever he sees fit to travel. From mainland Scotland, it's the Isle of Skye."

Lupin's eyes narrowed as he thought, but Hermione just began to lick the raspberry filling from her knuckles. It was distracting, the way the chocolate melted over her fingers, because it was so familiar. Her teeth sunk into the actual chocolate then, and more raspberry spurted out onto her fingers and dribbled down her chin; Hermione had never seemed like the kind of girl that enjoyed getting dirty, no matter what was on her mind. Besides that, Lupin had dined with her enough to know that she was well-mannered and a clean eater, so for the life of him, he couldn't begin to fathom her sudden change in behavior, but it was well enough.

Her eyes were far off, looking at something else, even as she wiped her hand across her chin, and it wasn't until she had finished eating her chocolate frog that she seemed to come back to herself.

"How did you gain this information?" Lupin asked, not wanting to miss a beat. But Hermione had, because she was blinking and staring at him in utter confusion.

"I—what?"

"How—Ms. Granger are you feeling well?"

The old formality shocked Hermione into sitting up straighter—how long had it really been since she'd been called that?—but it had brought her back to the here and now, instead of the there and then, and she knew she had been going there far too much lately.

"I'm feeling fine, thank you. I just—my head hurts a bit is all. I also know that Lord Voldemort has Ron and Ginny—"

"We've already established that," Lupin interrupted, watching Hermione carefully.

Hermione couldn't help but notice the way Lupin's eyes seemed to drill into her, and it made her uncomfortable. But then again, Lupin had always made her uncomfortable, ever since—and _damn it_, there was that _since_ that she could _never_ escape, even though she wanted to. Things shifted out of focus for just a little bit, and she could almost feel the present slipping away. _Not now, _Hermione thought frantically, gripping the fabric of her corduroys. _Not in front of Lupin._

It took only a second for her to grasp back onto the words, but that was a second too long, because Lupin was watching her with a calculating expression. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth, but the words were pouring out before she could even stop them; _why, _she wanted to ask, _why can't I control anything?_

"Yes, but we haven't established their conditions yet, and I know that they are both alive and safe—or as safe as they can ever be under the employ of Voldemort." Hermione licked her lips and ran her hands over the thighs of her corduroys once more, shaking her frizzy curls out of her face. "The location is still unknown, but I'm almost positive that Voldemort will keep them alive."

Lupin waited for a moment, and then tried again. "And how did you come across this information?"

"Ron and Ginny have both been Marked, but I think they were both for very different reasons—"

"Hermione," Lupin interrupted gently, although she could sense the underlying frustration in his voice. "How did you come by this infor—"

"_Professor_," Hermione said breathlessly. "Professor, I—we can't… we can't follow Harry." Her throat was tight and her palms were sweaty but she _had_ to let him know. Had to let him know why the bad intentions tasted so disgusting on her tongue and why she needed to cloak it with something sweet. The knowledge that she couldn't go after Harry killed her inside… she wanted nothing more than to be by his side, but she knew, more than anyone, that it wasn't going to happen, and she need to find out what the _riddle_ meant. She didn't have time for Lupin's ridiculous questions, and he needed to realize that, otherwise…

It had been a month since she had been with Harry, and she was missing him terribly.

But Harry was perfectly sane, and he just wanted to save someone—save _Ginny_, her mind reminded her viciously, and the anger and jealousy was rising to the surface once more—and Harry was different from Ron, because while Harry might have been willing to stare death in the face just to protect someone…

The thought burned bitterly in Hermione's mind, and she could feel her stomach twist unpleasantly. It didn't matter, the desperation to find Harry. Because she couldn't. Blaise had made that abundantly clear when he had told her Harry's destination, when he had answered her final question. _You use it against the Dark Lord._ Because Tom Riddle was who it was really about, not Harry, not her own selfish despair. So _what_, Ron was insane and gone, before she could have done anything to stop it? So _what_, Ginny was captured against her will and Marked like every other pureblood still left in the Wizarding world. And so _what_, Harry had gone after the red head, despite the fact that he shouldn't have. So _what_? It didn't matter, not anymore. There were people who needed to be saved, people who mattered, and Harry was strong enough to make it out on his own. He had fought and bested Voldemort five times in his life, and he was strong enough to do it again.

Hermione could understand though, why he was being so selfish. He had almost lost Ginny once, had separated from her because he didn't want her to become a liability. No… not a liability, but… a sacrifice. Ginny was more than that. More than some nondescript person who meant nothing to Harry. She meant everything and more, and even though Harry was engaged to Hermione… Hermione knew that he loved her. He loved her just as she loved him, and even though they weren't always happy or didn't always get along, they still _made_ it, and they loved each other.

Harry just loved Ginny more.

That thought along was enough to make Hermione want to burst out into tears, even though she couldn't.

Tentatively, she rubbed the lines of her corduroys once again, loving the soft feel of them. Lupin remained oddly silent, as though waiting for Hermione to speak up, to say something. So she did. She said the first thing that came to mind because it was the first thing that came to mind and it would distract him. And she needed Lupin more distracted than anything, because he was intelligent enough to work out her lies, even though she wasn't. But she was good at it, wanted to pride herself on it. There was nothing prideful about lying, however, and she didn't want to.

Almost painfully, Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and gave Lupin a watery smile.

"That's not all, Professor. There was this… riddle," Hermione said shortly. "And I can't figure out what it… means. But I know that it's important."

Lupin remained quiet for a moment, blinking at Hermione tiredly before shaking his head. He tilted forward in his chair, his grey hair falling back into his face. His fingers traced the grainy woodwork of his desk, but one ear was cocked towards Hermione, listening. Waiting.

So she told him.

"Inferior without minds, but spurred by blood and the need to be whole—muggleborns aren't the only ones used as sacrifices."

It left an odd taste in her mouth, hearing that, but Lupin merely continued to trace to wood in front of him with pale fingers. Hermione noticed that his fingers were long, too, but not nearly as long as Zabini's, and that thought left her off-kilter and startled for just a brief moment.

"Say it again," Lupin responded softly, so Hermione did. She waited for a moment, watching as Lupin mouthed the sentence over and over again, his mind working at twice the speed of hers (_he was twice her age, after all, so it made sense_), but when he asked her to repeat it once again, Hermione felt that hope dwindling.

"Professor—"

"Again, Ms. Granger, if you will."

Hermione frowned at the formality, but licked her lips and spoke. "Inferior without minds, but spurred by blood and the need to be whole—muggleborns aren't the only ones used as sacrifices."

Lupin smiled in amusement. "It's an odd statement, don't you think?" Lupin asked, shaking his head. "I find it even more amusing that you were unable to work this out on your own, Ms. Granger."

Hermione's lips thinned and she glared at Lupin. "Regardless of that fact, _Professor_, I came to you because I felt as though—"

"The clues are all in there, Hermione," Lupin answered. "Without minds. Spurred by blood. Spurred by the need to be whole. Used as sacrifices. _Inferior. _Muggleborns have always been a dispensable commodity within the wizarding world. There are more muggleborns than half-bloods, more half-bloods than purebloods, and more Muggles than all of us combined. So if Voldemort were to wipe out half the wizarding world, via sacrificing the Muggleborns in order to reach his goal, then what would be the point in needing something lesser than Muggleborns?"

"Because they're mindless, obviously," Hermione answered, pushing aside the frizzy curls that fell in her face. "And the only thing lesser than Muggleborns are Muggles, and—"

"Not quite," Lupin answered. "But we'll keep trying. Let's keep it within the parameters of the magical community."

Hermione huffed and pressed her lips together, glaring at Lupin balefully. Lupin, however, just sat back and smiled at her, waiting for the sudden leap in logic he knew she was capable of.

_So_, Hermione thought to herself. _What, precisely, is mindless, spurred by blood and the need to be whole, and can be used as a sacrifice?_ These were the questions that she had tried asking herself again and again, but she still couldn't make the connection. Lupin thought he was helping her by hinting to her—something that was applicable to the magical community alone. But she had answered part of the question. What _was _the point of Voldemort needing something lesser than Muggleborns? But then of course, that couldn't be right, either. Because it wasn't something lesser than Muggleborns, more something that was _inferior_ to Muggleborns, even if she couldn't quite make the connection.

But she knew why—Muggleborns had minds. Half-bloods had minds. Purebloods had minds. Merlin, even Muggles had minds, even if they did go along with the whole flock of sheep mentality. And if everything had minds, they had the ability to think and make decisions for themselves, which was why it was always so difficult, the war, because people did have the ability to think, and it was the ability to think which caused so much fighting. And beings that thought were difficult to control. Beings capable of _coherent_ thought were difficult to control, so—

_Spurred by blood and the need to be whole._

There was something there, too, something that made little sense. If something wasn't whole, how could it function? A human could function with the loss of a limb, but Hermione knew it went beyond that. It wasn't merely physical, but if this was a breathing, living creature, than how was it possible for it to move, but not possess any blood?

But it was something that Voldemort needed, something that he used, something that—

_Voldemort_, Hermione thought, her eyes widening. _Voldemort needed blood, too, once._

And then she was looking at Lupin, partly because he was there, partly because it was suddenly _so obvious_, and of _course_ Voldemort would be interested, because it was _Voldemort_. It was a war, and while Hermione was fighting for the Light, Voldemort was fighting for the _Dark_, and _Lupin _was there and it was _so_ _obvious._

What else could be more inferior than Muggleborns, but still hold any importance to the Dark Lord?

"A Dark creature," Hermione said finally, her breath coming out in short little pants. "A Dark creature that's… that's _inferior_, and—_oh._ Of _course_. How could I be so stupid?"

Lupin merely gave her an enigmatic smile, but there was pain behind it that Hermione didn't notice.

"Inferior. _Inferi._ It's so… so _obvious._" Hermione pushed her hair back from her face and stared at Lupin with wide eyes, unsure of why she suddenly felt so close to everything. "Their bodies possess no blood, and no soul, and because they have no souls, they also lack minds and the capacity to think. And since Inferi can't really die, considering that they're already dead, it makes it easier for Voldemort to use them to reach whatever… whatever goal he is trying to reach. They're dispensable, because they aren't alive, but they still possess a human body."

"Precisely," Lupin said quietly, learning forward on his elbows. "You really are the cleverest witch of your age, Hermione. It was quite cryptic."

Hermione frowned. "Then how did you—"

"I am a Dark creature," Lupin continued, answering the question before it was even finished being asked. "I am something that Voldemort uses and thinks of as dispensable as well. However, it was the Muggle-born comment that made it clear to me. Muggleborns and Muggles are grouped in the same class when it comes to Voldemort—they're both as despicable as the next. But it was the inferior comment that threw me, after all, what could possibly be more inferior than Muggleborns and Muggles, if Muggles are the one thing Voldemort wants to eradicate from the world? The only other thing that I could think of would be a Dark creature, and it suddenly made sense—an Inferi is the only creature that's lesser than a Muggle-born and can still be controlled and used to fulfill his wishes."

"But it's those very wishes that we're unclear… of…" Hermione sat for a moment, thinking and waiting. There had to be something that she was missing. Yes, Voldemort was using Inferi, but what was the point of it? It just didn't make any sense.

Lupin frowned then, and ran his fingers back over the grainy desk in front of him, his wrinkles deepened with concern. "Hermione," he started gently. He waited until she looked at him, gave him her full attention. "Where, exactly did you come by this information?"

Hermione looked away guiltily, because she knew she couldn't answer. She wanted to, so badly, because Lupin had _helped her_ figure out what she _couldn't._ Then again, she had figured it out, but her thoughts had wandered in the other direction, because Voldemort was a _Dark Creature_, and Hermione had been thinking of _humans_, and…

"Even Severus wasn't able to supply us with information such as this. Albus was aware that Voldemort was using Inferi, but it was his belief that he was using them as tools to help destroy muggleborns. But this means that they're being used for something else, and it worries me to know that you are suddenly privy to information that Severus himself is unaware of."

Hermione continued to stare resolutely at the floor, her hands sweaty once again. She wished that she could pull out that little bag of bad intentions, but since Lupin already helped her, she could leave, so _easily_, and the door was just _right there._

"_Ms. Granger_," Lupin started, and Hermione snapped around to face him.

_This is strictly to stay between you and I_.

Hermione bit her lip and fidgeted in her seat, torn between telling him everything and not saying a word, but then Lupin was moving away from the desk and standing, and Hermione had a feeling that if she didn't saying anything, then he was going to force her to tell him the truth.

Veritaserum wasn't the only way to get someone to talk, after all.

_You are not to mention my name, where we met, or my intentions, is that clear?_

_Yes, _Hermione thought as she squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the seat of her chair. _It's perfectly clear._

"A Death—"

And suddenly, it hit her, because nothing could be so obvious yet so ridiculously vague at the same time.

_Oh_, Hermione thought, her eyes widening slightly. _Oh._

"Pro_fes_sor?" Hermione said suddenly, her voice high. "May I… ask you a question?"

Lupin paused on his way around the desk, watching as Hermione's eyes seemed to focus on nothing. Slowly, he leaned against the desk, his arms folding over his chest. "Of course, Ms. Granger."

"If I were to tell you that Ginny cheated death, and you were to ask when, and I was to answer one and seven, what would you think of that answer?"

Lupin frowned, but stayed quiet for a brief moment. "I would think that it was very straightforward, Hermione."

"_Exactly_. Because those numbers don't mean anything to anybody, but there is some relevance to it, right? I mean, the only time that Ginny even came close to death was in her first and seventh years at Hogwarts, and both of those times were a direct cause of Voldemort."

"That would… be correct," Lupin answered slowly.

"But then, you would think that people who cheated death… you would think that he would want to have them near him, because it means that he would get closer to his goal of immortality, since he's so afraid of dying himself. After all, isn't that what Professor Dumbledore is telling him all the time? _There are things worse than death?"_

"Hermione," Lupin started, moving towards her. "You tend to make astounding leaps of logic that not even the most intelligent man can keep up with. Please, enlighten me."

"What I mean is—Death Eaters aren't supposed to die, but they do. _Death Eaters_. But what good does eating death do for you? None. Because death can still eat you, right? Voldemort's all about riddles, and if Luna were here… if Luna were here, it would have been so easy figuring it out. She was always one for word games, and—"

"Hermione," Lupin called, reaching forward and grabbing her elbow. Hermione jerked forward, her bushy hair hitting Lupin in the face, but it did what it was supposed to do. She could feel herself calming. Could feel the delirium slowly creeping back into the recesses of her mind. Almost tiredly, she reached up and rubbed her temples, letting out a harsh, brutal breath. Lupin held onto her elbow for a moment longer—_a moment too long_—but Hermione didn't mind. He just needed to remember.

He needed to remember a lot of things. Like himself, for instance. Hermione couldn't help but feel sick when she thought of it; she needed to remember herself quite a bit, _too_, these days.

"Right," Hermione answered with a shake of her head. "Sorry."

"It's quite all right," Lupin answered, leaning back against the desk. "Please, do continue."

Hermione nodded and rubbed her hands back over her corduroys nervously; now that the hysterical thoughts were gone, it was harder to voice what was on her mind, harder to make the connections that she wanted to. But Blaise had commended her on her ability to do that, so she would, and besides, he had called her _clever._

"People who cheat death have more use to him. Death Eaters are supposed to be able to do that, but they can't. How many Death Eaters do you know that have died?" When Lupin merely shrugged his shoulders, Hermione's eyes fluttered closed, and her fingers pressed against her throbbing temples once again. "They aren't of any use to him. So Inferi are, because they can be controlled and undoubtedly stay under his control. Death Eaters have the capacity to think and feel for themselves, so they can defect, like Professor Snape has. People who cheat death, like Ginny, can defy him as well, but the longer he has her, the more he can break her down until she's exactly the way he wants her to be."

Hermione took a breath then, pressed her fingers to her eyes and felt the oiliness of her eyelids.

"The Death Eater's riddle… it had two meanings, sir."

Lupin shifted forward suddenly, his amber eyes intense as Hermione's hands fell away from her eyes and focused on him with a sudden sharp clarity that hadn't been there before.

"Inferi _are_ without minds and spurred by blood and the need to be whole. They are also inferior to Muggleborns, but… if you take away everything pertaining to Dark Creatures, you're left with something else."

Quietly, Hermione stood and moved over to the desk, grabbing a spare piece of parchment. A quill and an inkwell was next, and before Lupin had even begun to fully process what she was doing, she had written the riddle down on the parchment. But… there were words crossed out. And it boggled his mind, the way Hermione's mind had worked through the superfluous wording, the way she sorted out the double-meanings. Suddenly, _Inferior without minds, but spurred by blood and the need to be whole_ had transformed into _Inferior but whole_—_Muggle-borns aren't the only ones used as sacrifices_. And he couldn't quite grasp the meaning, even though it was there.

"I'm not quite sure I understand what you're getting at, Hermione."

"Sir," Hermione started breathlessly. "What is Ginny?"

Lupin licked his lips, not needing to think on the question. "A Pureblood."

Hermione tilted her head forward, her frizzy curls falling into her face. "A Blood_ traitor_."

And suddenly, everything made sense.

* * *

**_February 12th, 2000, 8:58 p.m._**

The trek to his room was extremely tiresome, but Harry found that it didn't matter. All he wanted to do was throw himself into his comfortable bed and sleep the night away, free of nightmares and interruptions. And, hopefully, he thought, free of dreams of Ginny. He wasn't sure when it started happening, the sudden need to escape from the horrible dreams that plagued his mind, but the closer and closer he got to Ginny, the harder it became for him to handle it. He kept seeing her broken and tattered body, both in the Chamber of Secrets and in the cellars, frightened and terrified of the dark. It haunted him every time he woke up, and every time he did wake, he wished he had been dreaming of Hermione.

He didn't want to be reminded of the past, where Ginny had almost died. Where she was most likely almost dying now. He wanted to forget the dead turtles and the razor blades and the wet matches, because honestly, it wouldn't do him any good. He didn't want to remember the way that his hand felt, going through the glass of his window, or the tiredness that came after that. Didn't want to remember what it felt like to see the Weird Sisters, dangling over head, laughing and singing in their nasally voices and—

Harry stopped and froze, his brows furrowing. Slowly, he glanced down towards his hands, turning them this way and that, looking for scars.

There were none.

Confusion settled over his exhausted mind then, because he was almost certain that he had seen the turtles sliding over the cold stone in the Gryffindor common room, rotting and disgusting and dead, but he hadn't. He _couldn't_. Because he was there, in Manchester, trying to sleep and live and—

_Ginny._

Letting out a shaky sigh, Harry flattened his bangs over his scar and continued down the hallway.

It had been getting worse, ever since he left.

He wasn't exactly sure _why_ it felt as though the silver tendril of thoughts continued to filter into his mind, thoughts that weren't his own, but they were, and he needed to know why. Needed to know why the words echoed off the walls. Needed to know why he continued to see red sliding through the cracks and rotting tomatoes floating in the air and why _was_ killing people so utterly silly? But someone had screamed, just like they always had, and Hermione would have been able to make sense of it, would have been able to work it out, and yet she couldn't.

She wasn't there.

But flashes kept going through his mind, flashes of memories that couldn't possibly have been his, and even as he neared the stairs and started ascending to the fourth floor, he knew that there was something wrong. Through his entire trip to Manchester, things had gotten worse. Something was happening, something that he, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, Savior of the Wizarding World and whatever the hell else people deigned to call him these days, had no control over. And it grated on him.

He could feel the anger slowly lifting to the surface, ready to explode, but he didn't want to. Hated the fact that it could. Such emotions weren't even meant for him, were only meant for people like Sirius, people he _loved_, like Ron and Hermione and Ginny and—

His temples throbbed, and Harry thought he heard singing.

"Merlin," Harry grumbled as he came to a stop before his door, digging through his pockets for his keys. The thought of sleep was one that he wanted to avoid, because the dark images were something that he wanted to definitely forget, but…

His keys weren't in his left pocket, so he moved to his right, going rigid when he felt something that most definitely was not supposed to be there.

Lifting the parchment out of his pocket, he looked at the well-worn, folded piece of sheepskin, wondering how it got there. Carefully, he unfolded the parchment, hoping it wasn't hexed, hoping he hadn't done the most ignorant thing in his life, only to come up short as he stared at the multiple numerical equations written across the page. The numbers and letters were written stiffly and precisely, and the runes that were drawn were done so beautifully. He knew he had seen the handwriting before, had seen the contents of it, but even so, he couldn't think as to _why_ he had it with him, there and then. He flipped the page over, took note of the continuous flow of the equation onto the next three pages, before shoving them into the crook of his arm as he finally fished his key out of his pocket.

It was almost a struggle, getting the key into the keyhole, but he had somehow managed, and stumbled into the room, closing and locking the door behind him. His trainers were the first to go, as was his jacket. He set the parchment down on his bedside table as he shucked off his pants and dropped them on his floor before digging around in the bedside table. Almost instantly, he pulled out an envelope and scribbled a quick address onto the front, not even bothering to write a letter; she would know who it was from as soon as she received it.

Refolding the parchments, he shoved them into the envelope and padded over to the other side of the room, where Hedwig was resting, her head tucked under her wing.

Something occurred to him as he stopped to stare at the beautiful white owl in front of him and he was pulling the parchment back out of the envelope and scribbling two words on the first empty space he could find.

_Asphillis Adelbrandt_.

Harry grinned. His Hermione was a smart one. He knew she'd be able to figure out just what it all meant, even if he couldn't. He could almost feel the information filtering back into his mind, wondering why, today of all days he found that stupid piece of parchment. He was certain that he had tossed it long ago, but it hardly mattered. Hedwig took the message in her beak, and Harry opened his window, allowing her to disappear through it.

Sleep seemed to bombard his mind then, and he turned and staggered towards his bed, falling onto the cold sheets. The pillow was soft against his face, and Harry let out a groan as he pulled the covers over him, wishing for sleep to claim him as soon as possible. Even if he was afraid.

He really hated dreaming of Ginny.

* * *

**_February 18th, 2000, 6:06 p.m._**

She stayed at Grimmauld Place.

Hermione wasn't completely sure why it was the first thing she decided to do, after all, it would have been much easier for her to just go to her flat and scrounge up the courage to travel into Diagon Alley and find any and all pieces of information she could on Inferi. But something told her to stay. Something caused her to stay put, where Lupin could keep an eye on her, where he could make sure she was safe. The fact that Molly Weasley had suddenly appeared didn't seem to be helping anything, either.

Almost nervously, Hermione twisted the ring on her finger, wishing that she could get out of the house. Hoping for it, but just as before, something was holding her back. It hadn't been easy, living with Mrs. Weasley and Lupin. Ever since she had come across that stupid riddle, she had never had any time to herself. Every time she tried to go off by herself, someone was always there, watching over her, making sure that she was confined to the house. The old habit of cleaning up filthy rooms seemed to have sprouted up out of nowhere, and before she realized it, her knees were bruised from scrubbing or reaching under couches to extricate Kreacher. The front hall had taken the longest, but by the time she had finished, she had moved onto the sitting room, and was, once again, blasting doxies out of the curtains. It was harder than she originally thought, trying to keep up with the cleaning all by herself. Mrs. Weasley helped sometimes, but the woman seemed so intent on protecting Hermione and keeping her out of harms way, that she barely got anything done.

Lupin mostly busied himself with continuously researching Inferi, and within the four days that Hermione had attempted to assist him, he always managed to maneuver her out of the room and back into another, filthy, disgusting room.

Hermione hated it.

But at the same time, she was thankful for something to keep her mind off of Harry. It had been so long since she had last seen him, since she had last seen Ron and Ginny, and she was wishing for respite. The longer she went without them, the easier it became for her to forget, she found she didn't like it. Sometimes, in the middle of meals, she would lift her head to address one of them, only to find them not there.

Lupin was the only one to notice.

Huffing, Hermione jerked the blankets off one of the beds, coughing as a thick dust seemed to settle in the air around her. It was never easy, dealing with the continuous filth, but she _had_ managed to clean four rooms, and that was a relief, in and of itself. Before they knew it, all the Order members would be able to stay in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, without having to worry about getting bitten by poisonous doxies or bitten by a baby acromantula. Or Kreacher, Hermione thought viciously, remembering the way the elf continued to snatch things from the pile of rubbish that she continued to accumulate throughout the house. It was difficult, staying there, because no one but Harry was able to control him, and the more she attempted to throw things out, the more vicious and stubborn he became. It had gotten to the point where Lupin had to intercede on Hermione's behalf, and while she so desperately wanted some time to sneak into the study, he somehow managed to avoid that.

The secrecy was killing Hermione. Even as she folded up the bed sheets and placed them in a laundry basket, the simple thought that they were keeping things from her was enough to make her want to scream at the top of her lungs. What was the point of gathering information when she could do nothing to help? Getting down her hands and knees, Hermione peered under the bed to make sure that there were no more doxies that she had to worry about, only to shriek when a pair of bright, yellow, bulbous eyes blinked at her from underneath the bed.

"Merlin! Kreacher! What are you doing?" She asked clambering to her feet as the house elf crawled out from under the bed, muttering and bowing lowly.

"I will never answers to the filthy mudblood, mistress would be so displeased, filthy mudbloods defiling the houses of my mistress, filthy, dirty, pathetic mudbloods. Never answers to the disgraces," he continued as he stared at Hermione's knees wickedly.

Hermione could only sigh. "Very well, Kreacher. I'm not throwing anything out, so you don't need to worry. Just cleaning it up. I highly doubt your Mistress would be pleased at the state of her house, now would she?"

"Not with the filthy mudbloods living here, no, but I will not answer the mudblood, the disgrace, the disgusting dirty thing she is with her ugly hair," Kreacher muttered some more, shooting Hermione a dark look as he staggered from the room. Hermione sighed once again, rolling her eyes to the ceiling as she picked up the laundry basket and walked from the room, blinking as Kreacher dove into a random room. Not bothering to worry about what, exactly, the decrepit house-elf was doing, Hermione continued down the stairs and into the kitchen, passing the curtained picture of Mrs. Black quietly.

Lupin was sitting at the table, a book resting neatly next to his elbow as he rolled a bottle of Butterbeer between his hands, his brow furrowed slightly as he gazed at the yellow liquid swirling within the green bottle. Tonks was leaning against the table next to him, and Mrs. Weasley was at the counter, cutting up some vegetables.

"Wotcher, Hermione!" Tonks greeted, grinning at her. "Heard you're having a rough time of it, getting this place together again."

Hermione scowled. "Oh, I would say so, considering that my time would be better well spent doing something more _orderly_," she replied tightly, shooting a sharp glare towards Lupin.

His lips twitched slightly.

"Is that the wash, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked, turning away from her cooking to give Hermione a once over. "Very well then, set it over in the corner and I'll get it cleaned."

Nodding slightly, Hermione glanced at Lupin and Tonks before setting the laundry in the corner and making her way back towards the tables, snatching a bottle of Butterbeer out of the crate. Quickly, so as not to be noticed, Hermione tapped her wand against the top, smiling as it unscrewed itself before she placed the cork in her pocket.

"So, Tonks," Hermione started. "What have you been up to?"

"Well I _should_ be chasing Dark Wizards, but instead I'm pushing papers. Oh, what a _miserable_ _life_ I lead," she replied with a smile. Hermione couldn't help but smile also. At least Tonks knew how she felt, stuck in that house, doing absolutely _nothing_ useful except for cleaning, just to keep her mind off of other things. Lupin set his Butterbeer bottle down then, and looked up at Hermione, his expression polite.

"Dinner should be ready in a few minutes, Ms. Granger," Lupin said, and the formality was not lost on Hermione. Her shoulders and back went stiff at that, and her eyes narrowed slightly as Tonks frowned down at the older man. Mrs. Weasley paused in her chopping and gave a brief glance over her shoulder, but Hermione's back went straighter, and a polite smile managed to flicker across her features. "Perhaps you might want to wash up."

The way in which Lupin had said that was such an apparent dismissal, that Hermione couldn't help the rage that coursed through her then. She felt her fingers twitch as she moved to get her wand, but instead, she took a drink of her Butterbeer before setting it on the table, flashing Lupin another polite smile.

"Of course, Professor," she replied as she moved towards the kitchen door. "Sounds like a lovely idea."

She had barely shut the door before she heard Tonks give a low whistle. "You shouldn't be so hard on her, Remus," Tonks muttered before Hermione was moving down the hall. Her lips were pulled into a thin line as she made her way down the corridor and towards the stairs, only to freeze as she glanced back towards the kitchen. Quietly, so as not to arouse suspicion, she crept back past Mrs. Black's portrait and towards the end up the hall, stopping at the study. Biting her lip, Hermione glanced back down towards the hall, before turning towards the door to the study and pulling out her wand.

"_Reveal_," she muttered, watching as the area around the door glittered slightly. Stepping back, she glanced down the hall once more, and cleared her throat, turning back towards the door. It was obvious that it was a proximity alarm, but the efforts at which Lupin was going in order to ensure his projects secrecy was infuriating. Checking the first layer of spell work on the door, Hermione quickly worked through the second and the third, having little to no difficulty on the fourth. When there were none left, Hermione gave a sigh and stepped through the door.

She'd have to remember to reset them before she left.

Quickly, she moved towards the desk, casting another Revealing Charm, happy when there weren't any on the desk.

The area itself was clean, and Hermione tried to commit the placement of everything to memory as she shuffled through it. The parchment within the first drawer was blank, and there was a small case of quills settled neatly next to it. Four ink bottles were lined up farther in the drawer, but Hermione closed it, not bothering to look through it further. Sending a nervous glance towards the door once more, she opened the next drawer, only to find it empty. Frowning, she moved down the desk, finding a drawer filled with Sneakoscopes and froze.

The baubles were starting to move.

"Oh _Merlin_," she thought as she slammed the door shut, fumbling for her wand. "Of _course_, Professor Lupin would have a drawer full of Sneakoscopes. Of _course_." She waited for a minute, waited to hear if they would whistle, but nothing came.

Hermione let out a breath, and moved onto the next drawer.

There was nothing but a leather bound journal sitting in the next drawer, and without even looking at the contents of it, she shrunk it and put it in her pocket, before closing the drawer and moving onto the next drawer. It was filled with nothing spectacular, just parchment with illegible words written on it, but Hermione took that too, and folded the parchments together before shoving it into her pocket.

The final drawer was the most interesting, filled with three large, tomes. She gave one more, helpless glance towards the door before she hefted them out and set them on the desk. The first book was bound in a stiff fabric, one Hermione didn't recognize, but the title simple read _Creatures of the Dark._ Hermione knew, almost at once, that this had to be Lupin's main reference source, so she pushed that aside and glanced towards the next tome, running her fingers over the papery-like substance of the cover. The title was written in gold lettering over the top and simply read _Creating and Handling Dark Creatures,_ which Hermione also put aside before settling on the last tome.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Almost instantly, Hermione opened the book and placed her wand against the binding, muttering a simple, "_Diffindo_._" _

The cords that bound the pages together seemed to snap apart quickly, and Hermione pulled the pages out of the book and set them aside. Then, she moved over towards the other side of the study and pulled a tome off the shelf, placing the empty book in the place it once occupied. She moved away from the book shelf and stacked the books on top of each other before closing the drawer. Glancing at the pages in front of her, she tapped her wand against them, watching as they shrunk to the size of a watch, before picking them up and putting them in her pocket. Glancing around the room, Hermione waited to make sure that everything was in order.

Letting out a quiet breath, Hermione moved towards the door, and lifted her wand, resetting the spells that she had cast. Taking one last look around the room, Hermione placed her hand on the doorknob and twisted.

The Sneakoscopes went off.

The loud, high pitched screech seemed to echo throughout the house, and Hermione jerked around turning to stare at the desk.

"Oh _Merlin_," she gasped, throwing herself against the wall closest to the door as the Sneakoscopes went off. The Disillusionment Spell was cast before she even realized she had done it, and Hermione pressed her hand against her mouth to quiet her breathing as best as possible.

Hermione wasn't sure how long she waited, but it felt like forever. Lupin was the first on in the room, his eyes darting back and forth as he stood completely still, calm, and collected. Mrs. Weasley came in second, and Tonks in third, followed by Kingsley Shacklebolt. She was almost certain that they could hear her breathing, but she couldn't leave, not yet. Kingsley was still standing in the doorway, watching as Lupin strode purposely over to the desk and started yanking the drawers open.

"Missing anything, Remus?" Tonks asked she strolled over to the bookcase.

Hermione stood frozen, her breath catching in her throat as Lupin pulled open a drawer, only to freeze. She thought that everyone could hear the loud beating of her heart, was almost certain that Lupin had, because for one brief, horrific moment, his eyes shifted upwards until they were resting on her. The absolute anger that was swirling around in them was enough to make Hermione want to turn tail and run, but her eyes merely widened at the sight of Lupin furious with her, furious with her for wanting to be a _part_ of something, and for some reason, she knew he would never forgive her. But she had to do it, had to know what was happening. It had only been four days since she had shared the information with him, but within those four days, she had spent the hours cleaning and doing little else. She was a good at digging for information, good at finding things that were obscure and almost non-existent, and—but then Lupin's eyes were shifting away from her, and Kingsley gave a little sigh and moved forward into the room.

"The journal's gone," Lupin responded tightly, "as are the notes."

"Hmmm," Tonks muttered as her fingers ran across the books, stopping slightly. "Well, well, well, isn't our little Hermione oh so clever," she said, and Hermione froze halfway through the door.

"Took an entire book, she did," Tonks replied lightly. "Isn't this the one Dung managed to pick up for us?"

Lupin turned. "What do you mean?"

"This book," She replied, lifting it up to show Lupin. "_The River_?"

Mrs. Weasley frowned. "I thought you said she took it."

"She did," Tonks replied as she opened the cover. "It's empty."

It only took a moment, but Lupin's face hardened.

Fear seemed to clutch at Hermione's heart as she watched him move over towards Tonks and grab the tome cover right out of her hands. He stared at it long and hard for a moment, his fingers trembling slightly.

"Molly," Lupin said softly. "Please go and floo Albus."

Tonks frowned as Mrs. Weasley moved towards the door. Hermione jerked out of the way just as Mrs. Weasley brushed passed her, and when Lupin glanced towards the door, she was almost certain he could see her.

"Is it really necessary to get Dumbledore involved?" Tonks asked. "I mean, you were expecting this, weren't you?"

Lupin's jaw clenched, and Hermione realized she had seen and heard enough.

She apparated.

* * *

Lupin jerked around to see a small tendril of smoke floating into the air where the loud crack had sounded, and he couldn't keep his lips from twisting into a painful smirk.

"She really is the cleverest witch of her age," Lupin said after a moment, closing the empty binding. "A Disillusionment Charm."

Tonks frowned. "She waited to see what our reactions were, didn't she? It probably would have been better to just see if she would show up on her own."

"As it stands," Lupin replied, handing off the empty tome to Kingsley. "Hermione is now in possession of valuable information. The Order could very well be compromised."

Kingsley shrugged. "I don't think so," he replied, turning his level stare towards Lupin and Tonks. "She's a child. She was the one who brought in the information, and it's possible that she wanted to be the one to work everything out. "

"Even so, Albus needs to know. Ms. Granger is in contact with a Death Eater," Lupin answered steadily, moving towards the desk. He opened the drawer and pulled out several pieces of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill. "She's a liability."

Tonks frowned as Lupin dipped the quill into the ink and began writing across the parchment in quick, frustrated strokes. She could practically see the anger radiating off of him, the betrayal, and for a brief moment, her heart went out to him. But in the same token, she agreed with Kingsley. It was his fault for keeping her out of the loop, but then again… Tonks sighed. When was Dumbledore ever going to stop keeping secrets from his children? It only led to them doing completely ignorant things.

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were perfect examples, after all.

* * *

_**7:10 p.m.**_

The Leaky Cauldron was the first place she thought to stay, but she knew it wouldn't have been smart. Dumbledore was on relatively good terms with Tom, the innkeeper, and she knew that he would be more than willing to let her comrades know where she was staying. Her second thought was to stay at one of the inns in Hogsmeade, but once again, too obvious. Frowning as she sat on a bench in front of Flourish and Blotts, she glanced towards the grills near Gringotts. She couldn't go to her parents—it was far too obvious, and no one at the Burrow who would welcome her without making her explain to Dumbledore why she stole the papers.

Even shrunk, she could feel the text burning a hole through her pocket.

Sighing, Hermione tilted her head back and stared at the sky. There were really no places she could think to go without being obvious. Going back to her flat was definitely not an option, not until she came back under the Order's good graces, that was for certain. Her fingers were itching to read the documents in her possession, but she knew that she'd be unable to until she was safe somewhere. Somewhere that no one would be able to find her. Somewhere unnoticed. Hermione's lips twitched as she thought of Harry, of the way he seemed to be able to just disappear off the face of the Earth. Even now, Order members were itching to track him down, but as per her orders, they didn't. After all, the Order's main focus was on _Voldemort_, _not_ Harry. Even if the fact that a dead Harry meant a victorious Voldemort, they couldn't look for him. It was stupid, when she thought about it. Because Harry had left, just so he could save Ginny.

For one brief, hysterical moment, Hermione wished that she could be selfish for once, at least that way, she would have been able to save Ron. At least that way, she could have both him and Harry near her, at least that way, she could love them both so _unconditionally_, and—

Letting out a shaky breath, Hermione closed her eyes, the sting of her tears almost too much to handle.

—_bone protruded from the torn flesh, but the rivulets of crimson she had expected to see were absent, unnoticeable_—

She jerked suddenly, her eyes snapping open, only to open her mouth in a scream as she saw nothing but darkness.

But something was stopping her.

"Pipe down, Granger," a familiar voice said, and suddenly the darkness was receding until she was looking into familiar obsidian eyes. It took her a moment to place the face and the voice, took a moment before her panic slowly dissipated into nothing at the sight of the Death Eater. They both stood there, staring at each other silently before Zabini moved slightly, his hand slipping away from her mouth. "It would be highly troublesome for me to get incarcerated in Azkaban now, of all times."

His eyes shone with something akin to amusement, and Hermione's lips thinned. "For someone terrified of going to Azkaban, you certainly don't seem to fear getting caught," Hermione replied, gesturing to the throng of people moving around behind them. Zabini just smirked, moving closer to her.

"Notice-Me-Not," he replied simply, and Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

"Well then, if you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to," she answered snappishly, getting to her feet. Zabini merely lifted a hand and shoved back onto the bench, choosing once again, to invade her space.

"Before you go," he started, "I thought you might be interested in some information."

Hermione stilled. "Go on."

"Two Aurors were looking for you in the Leaky Cauldron," he said simply. "Tonks and Shacklebolt, I think their names were."

Hermione frowned. "What makes you think they're Aurors?"

Zabini's teeth seemed to blind her as he gave her a malicious smile and shrugged his shoulders. "The Dark Lord knows everything."

Hermione nearly snorted at the stupid line, but held back at the way Zabini's eyes narrowed. It was almost _odd_ talking to him, not at all like the last time. The last time, where she seemed to forget herself more than she ever really wanted to. The last time where images slipped away from her mind, only to return seconds later, causing her vision to blur and her eyes to water. She had seen things she didn't want to see, heard things she didn't want to hear, and almost mechanically, her eyes moved towards Zabini's arms, which were folded across his chest.

He began to sneer almost instantly.

She could almost see the dark outline of the Mark against his arm, jet black against his beautiful dark skin. That was so clear and gorgeous that Hermione wouldn't dare doubt his mother was a model. A part of her wanted to ask why he would go the way of the Dark Lord when he would have had a fine, prosperous life—there would always be so many opportunities with someone as beautiful as him. But then the image was blurring, and she was almost certain that the snake was slithering from the skull, its scales scraping against the tender flesh of Zabini's arms. It curled around his wrist, before traveling up his arm, snapping at things Hermione couldn't see—didn't want to _fathom_—because she was so tired of snakes and lies and Ron and Harry and—

…_they were eating at him the snake tried to kill them, but it didn't…_

…_and you will be delivered through the darkness, in pieces…_

…_bone protruded from the torn flesh, but the rivulets of crimson she had expected to see were…_

_Killing people is silly._

"Granger," Zabini said sharply, his fingers gripping her shoulder tightly. Hermione jerked at the close contact, her hands snapping upwards to grip at his wrist, but Zabini's words and contact had done what they were intended to do. She could feel the warmth of his hands through her clothes, and the shiver that threatened dance up her spine almost managed it, but she was pushing his hand off of her shoulder without a word.

It was always so hard, forgetting herself.

"Um," she started uncomfortably, rocking back on her heels.

Zabini's lips twitched.

"So what, precisely, do you do here in Diagon Alley? Notice-Me-Not or not, it's still a terrible risk, and I would have thought you more intelligent than that," Hermione replied snobbishly.

Zabini merely smirked. "And here I would have at least thought that Potter's precious mudblood would have been of sound body and mind, however, you can't put much value on _Potter's_ possessions. Weasel's a perfect example."

Pain arced through Hermione's chest before she even had a chance to stop it, and she jerked back, her knees connecting with the bench and forcing her to sit again. The question was burning in her throat, as was the anger and the sudden resentment that she felt for the beautiful black boy standing in front of her, because it had been so _long_ since she had thought of Ron's insanity, since she had thought of the way his mind was broken beyond repair. It _wouldn't_ have been that way, if she had stopped his mother. Wouldn't have been that way if she had stopped his _family_ and—the guilt was insurmountable. She wanted to cry herself sick.

How could she have been so negligent? Yes, she had given up on finding Harry, had tried her best to forget about Ginny, but Ron had been nothing more than a passing thought in her mind since Harry's disappearance. But then… so had _Harry_ and the guilt surfaced, ready to choke her. It was so _stupid_, forgetting about Ron. Forgetting about the pain that he had gone through. Before it was always so easy to remember, because Harry had been there, instantly butting heads with her, giving her those suspicious looks that had quickly disappeared and… the tears were already pricking at the back of her eyes, but she couldn't cry. Not in Diagon Alley. Not in front of Zabini. She knew that the comment had been aimed to hurt, and while she hadn't really thought about Ron, she knew that the love she felt for him was still there, still overpowering her love for Harry and—

She could almost remember the way she felt, whenever Ron kissed her.

Her stomach lurched at the thought.

It was only a moment, but at the sudden horror-struck look on Hermione's face, Zabini gave an impatient little sigh and sat down on the bench next to her, his knee touching hers. The sudden affection was almost jarring, but as Hermione struggled to hold back the tears she didn't move away from him. Her knee pressed harder against his, only to feel the same amount of pressure applied to hers in answer. It was almost comforting, the way that they were able to sit there, the way that she was able to draw comfort from a _Death Eater_ of all people, but even more than that, _Blaise Zabini_.

Her fingers were curled tightly into her trousers as gave a loud shaky breath, her eyes squeezing shut.

"I," Hermione startled, only to stop at the sudden onslaught of emotion that assaulted her. Oh, yes, it was so unforgivable, the way she had forgotten, so pathetic and ridiculous, and in that moment, Hermione hated herself more than she ever had in her life because there was no way that she could pretend to have loved Ron and just _forget_ about the fact that he was insane and broken beyond compare. There was no way that she could love him, not after that, not after _forgetting_, and how could she even claim to love him when she was just as pathetic as the people who tore his mind apart?

But she had been the reason for it, too, had been the reason for his disappearance, because although he loved her, he had left _because_ of her, and it was no secret. No secret that she had slept with him without a second thought, and how _that_ memory managed to be pushed into the back of her mind was enough to make her want to vomit.

The bile started to coat her tongue, but she managed to force it back down.

Harry would _never_ forgive her.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there, her leg pressed from hip to knee against Zabini's, but it felt like forever. The warmth and comfort that came from sitting next to him was something that she hadn't been expecting, but appreciated nonetheless, despite his harsh words. Having someone close to her helped the numbness to go away; pain meant that she was alive, so why shouldn't she feel it? She didn't want to feel the aching loneliness that came with both of her lovers' disappearance, but still—_still_—the lies that she managed to tell herself to make her forget left her feeling sick and exhausted.

Hermione kept herself from crying.

"Granger," Zabini started, only to have Hermione's hand curl around his and squeeze his fingers tightly. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to move away from her, but she held on tightly, not bothered by his discomfort.

"Sorry," she whispered, her frizzy curls falling into her face. "If… if you see Ron could you… could you tell him that I… that—"

"You forgot," Zabini interrupted, and Hermione's eyes squeezed closed, her tears clinging to her lashes.

Zabini felt ill.

"Yes," she replied sadly, and at that, Zabini jerked away from her and stood, his shoulder bumping someone. He didn't even bother apologizing, the person's eyes sliding off him and towards Hermione before shuffling into the bookstore. Silence reigned for a long, tension filled moment before Hermione jumped to her feet and started off in the opposite direction, humiliated. How could she have possibly… was she really so weak as to need _him_? Zabini of all people? He just had to be the one she lost her composure to, just had to be the one where she couldn't control her emotions with, and she felt so humiliated to know that he knew what her sore spot was. That he knew just how she really felt about Ron, and that when came to both Harry and Ron, there was really no way that she could choose. She loved them both, and no matter how much guilt she felt towards Ron's situation, Harry wouldn't let her get away, wouldn't let her deviate from their plan, wouldn't let her—

_But, _she thought miserably, _he already has. He went after Ginny, remember? He went after the person he loved most, so why can't you? Your pathetic excuse for an engagement means absolutely _nothing, _so why bother pretending?_

The misery and self-hatred surfaced so quickly, that before she even had a chance to question what she was doing she turned on her heel and marched back towards the bookstore. Zabini was there, sitting on the bench, his hands shoved into his pockets as he regarded everyone before him curiously. Hermione didn't want to question why he sat there and waited, but she didn't even make it to end the cast-iron bench before he was tilting his head in her direction, his obsidian eyes drifting away from far off point and back towards her.

His teeth glinted in the light.

"Well?"

Hermione took a breath, straightened, and folded her arms across her chest. "I need a place to stay."

Zabini arched an eyebrow.

"_Now_," Hermione snapped, and Zabini's lips twisted in amusement as he moved over to her and wrapped and arm around her shoulders, tugging her close.

Hermione's breath caught at the contact, but Zabini didn't even seem to notice. He tilted his head forward, the heat from his face a comfort as his cheek touched against hers, and the sudden feel of his breath on her ear made her heart thud loudly.

"Your Aurors are watching," Zabini replied, and Hermione's fingers clutched at his shirt.

They apparated.

* * *

_**7:36 p.m.**_

"Well at least we know who the Death Eater is," Tonks replied happily as she licked at an ice-cream cone.

"I don't think that's something to be pleased about," Kingsley replied with a frown. "I don't like the implications of their… relationship."

Tonks sent him a suggestive leer. "Don't think that men are the only ones allowed to fool around, Kingsley," Tonks replied, sucking at the ice cream melting over her fingers. "I mean, I don't know, he _was_ rather handsome, and I wouldn't mind walking on the dangerous side and getting it on with a Dark Wizard every once in a while."

Kingsley gave her a disgusted look. "Well, you wouldn't need to, considering you have a _werewolf_. I'd say that's dangerous enough."

Tonks snorted. "Please, Remus would rather drown himself than get anywhere _near_ me. For a werewolf that man has absolutely _no_ libido."

"Or perhaps you just turn him off," Kingsley answered with a chuckle. Tonks glared and stomped on his foot, but Kingsley didn't even react to it. Tonks sat there, stewing for a moment before letting out a loud sigh and dumping her ice cream into the nearest trash bin.

"Remus isn't going to be happy with this," she said quietly. "Especially if—" Tonks trailed off, her breathing hitching slightly, and she turned a painful smile his direction. "Well, you know."

Kingsley frowned and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, before glancing at the spot where Hermione had once been. His hand slid from her shoulder down to her elbow, and Tonks gave a tiny laugh, looping her arm through his.

"But on the bright side! At least we can tell Severus who the pseudo-spy is, right? I mean, at least there's _something_ Remus will be glad for." Tonks shifted and rubbed her sticky fingers against her robes, pushing through the crowd with Kingsley back towards the grills near Gringotts. "And, hey, Blaise Zabini isn't that hard of a person to track down, anyhow."

"He's still a Death Eater," Kingsley replied.

"Yes, but I don't want to believe that Hermione turned traitor, not yet. You have to give her _some_ credit; she's doing the best she can. I mean, if the loves of your life sudden disappeared and the only way to them was through Death Eaters, I think I'd turn traitor, _too_." Tonks bounced on her feet a little as they pulled to a stop in front of the grills, waiting as people grabbed their powder and Floo'd to their homes. "Not that I really have to, all things consider—"

"Nymphadora," Kingsley interrupted, only to get punched in the arm by the pink haired witch.

"How many times do I have to tell you to call me _Tonks_," she insisted, but only got a nudged closer to the grills.

"Oh, I don't know. Remus might be more than willing to pay attention to you if you started going by Nymphomaniac as opposed to Nymphadora or Tonks," Kingsley replied with a chuckle, only to get punched again.

"Shut _up_," Tonks snapped sullenly, but Kingsley wasn't fooled by her act.

Even as they Floo'd back to Grimmauld Place, Tonks had been smiling.

* * *

_**7:34 p.m.**_

Side by side apparition had never been her favorite thing in the world; Hermione couldn't stand being led somewhere she had no control over, but regardless of the fact, she held onto Zabini tightly, even as she felt as though she were being crushed by slabs on concrete on all sides. The journey was quick and easy, and by the time she got her bearings straight, Hermione was glad to know that Zabini had mastered side by side and that half her body wasn't left somewhere in Diagon Alley. Giving a tiny sigh, Hermione eased her fingers from Zabini's shirt and stepped out of his arms, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

An awkward silence hung in the air between them, and Hermione could feel the texts she stole burning a hole through her pocket. She bit her lip and rocked back on her heels, unsure of what to do.

The area around was nice and clean; he _had_ to have been wealthy if the beautiful furniture and portraits hanging in the room she was in was any indication. There was a gorgeous set of crystal brandy glasses sitting one of the end tables in the corner of the room, next to the bookcase, and the brandy within the snifter was enough to make Hermione's lips burn at the thought of kisses that tasted like alcohol and gave her a high that no one else had ever been able to match. Sighing slightly, Hermione's eyes lit on the bookcase and stayed there—books had always been a comfort zone for her, and she was almost certain that Zabini knew how awkward she was feeling. But still, he just stood there staring at her for another moment before his lips quirked up into a sneer and moved towards his desk.

"Well, Granger," Zabini started as he sat down at his desk, propping his elbow up on the beautiful oak surface. "I suppose that I should start off by listing the rules of my house."

Hermione turned towards him and narrowed her eyes, but Zabini just gave her a nasty glare before turning towards the fire place.

"You are not to wander around my home without an escort. You are not allowed to leave your room unless you are coming to this study, and if you prefer to have more sociable, familial setting for meal times, you'll have to contact me about it first. Death Eaters frequent my humble abode (Hermione snorted at this and rolled her eyes, folding her arms over her chest) quite often, so it would be imperative if you stayed out of the way, mudblood."

When Zabini finished talking and glanced down at his hands, Hermione's lips went thin.

"Well that's all very well and good, but I refuse to be a prisoner."

"If you wish to die that's your prerogative," Zabini replied coolly. "But I made a deal with Potter and I refuse to have him go back on it simply because you were too big-headed and stubborn to do as I say."

"Yes, well if you weren't so—"

"I could just as easily kick you out, Granger," Zabini replied softly. When Hermione's hands curled into fists, Zabini couldn't help but smile, and Hermione hated the condescension. "I doubt your precious Order would be pleased when they learn that you disappeared in the arms of a Death Eater."

"You wouldn't _dare,_" Hermione snapped, annoyed, and Zabini's lip curled once again.

"I can and I will Granger," he replied dangerously. "You're pushing your luck. I'd reconsider my thinking on this if I were you."

Hermione couldn't find anything to say to that, so she remained completely still, fuming as the man in front of her gave a triumphant little smirk before shuffling through some of the things on his desk. It wasn't as obvious as it could have been, but Hermione knew that she was being dismissed, placed on the back burner. He was doing it _purposely_, because he knew that if he left her there stewing, she would have to explode sometime. Her emotions had always been rather volatile whenever it came to being left in the dark—_but nothing like Harry, never like Harry_—and the fact that the Death Eater could disregard her so easily caused a discomfiting shiver to dance along her spine. She wasn't sure how long she stood there, her anger and irritation building up, but after what seemed like _hours_, Zabini finally looked up from his paperwork and smiled.

The smile made Hermione feel sick, because she had never seen Zabini smile like that, like a predator cornering his prey, so she shifted slightly before sitting down in one of the cushioned chairs in front of his desk. The submission was evident, even if it annoyed her that she had to it; she knew that he wouldn't speak to her unless she submitted to his authority. It was his home after all, and she knew that he was going out on a limb to keep her protected. The simple fact that he had even considered keeping her protected was enough to make her wonder just what, exactly, Harry had promised on his end, but it was nothing like she had promised. Just a way to destroy the Dark Lord. And whatever he wanted in return, she'd have to wait until he figured it out. In truth, it left Hermione feeling extremely out of place because she couldn't even begin to comprehend what was on his mind. She had never met anyone as difficult to read as Zabini, and the reason _why_ he had turned was beginning to gnaw at Hermione's brain. There had to be some starting point after all, and since Harry wasn't around to ask, she was going to have to settle on figuring it out on her own.

Even if it was too difficult to handle.

But even then, she might be able to find Ron. Because if Zabini was a Death Eater, and if Death Eaters frequented his home, then it only made sense that Ron might be there. That he _could_ be there, and—

_I suggest you figure Weasley out on your own_…

Hermione frowned at that thought, because she couldn't understand why it had decided to pop up then, of all times, but in the same token, she couldn't fault herself for remembering. She was always forgetting _so much_ these days, and she didn't have the bruises on her knees to keep her occupied or Lupin's damned interference to keep her angry. And now she couldn't even remember why she was forgetting in the first place. She couldn't remember why the silver tendrils of thought seemed to be there, gestating in the back of her mind only to slip away when she attempted to grasp at them. The fact that she had forgotten about Ron's insanity was enough to send her into a panic attack, and already, she could feel her lungs squeezing shut as the delirium clouded her mind and made the tears burn at the back of her eyes. It was too _painful_ dealing with it, dealing with the fact that the Dark Lord could have possibly been making things worse, and the fact that Hermione couldn't even _remember_ that Ron was being broken and breaking even more made Hermione want to cry until she was sick.

But she couldn't because even though she loved Ron more, she had only thought about _Harry_, because just like Ginny, Ron was supposed to be nothing. Because he had left her life ages ago, and she should have been able to move on from that. Thought she had. But the Boy-Who-Lived had disappeared, and that was everyone's main concern. Had been the thing that everyone had pushed her towards, but then Zabini had changed all that by pushing her in another direction. Yes, it was all right to want to save them, but there was something more important than past loves and shattered romances. There was something more important than weddings and engagements, and at least she had been able to be with him, at least she had been able to taste those fiery, alcohol induced kisses one last time. The guilt that had choked her the morning after had dissipated, along with the hysteria that came with Ron's insanity, but even now, months later, the fact that he was insane weighed down on her. Plagued her. Ate at her.

All because she had forgotten.

It made her want to save him.

Even though she knew she wouldn't be able to. But she could get him away from the Death Eaters, away from a place where the insanity would get worse, and even if Harry would hate her for it, Hermione knew that she would have to stick near Ron, no matter what. Nothing could change the fact that she loved Ron, not even the fact that she loved Harry, _too_—and Merlin, he had gone to save Ginny, so why couldn't she save _Ron_? The thought left a delicious burn in the back of her throat, but instead of being comforting, she felt even worse than before. A tense smile flickered across her face before dying out completely, and when Zabini narrowed his eyes at her, she looked down at her knees, unable to hold his penetrating gaze.

It was too hard. Everything was becoming too hard lately.

Like remembering. _Especially_ remembering.

A long, sickening moment seemed to pass between the both of them before Zabini stood in one swift movement and walked towards the exit, shooting Hermione a commanding look before he swept out the door. Unsure of how to respond, Hermione could only follow him, the guilt weighing her down. It would be so easy to manipulate Zabini, so easy to get what it was she wanted from him, so easy to forget Harry and—_no_, Hermione thought viciously, disgusted at the fact. _I can't forget Harry. Not ever._

And even though she knew she wouldn't, she just couldn't forget about Ron. Not anymore.

Dread seemed to fill her belly like lead, so Hermione continued to follow Zabini, not bothering to memorize where he was leading her. Everything seemed so tired and dull, and Hermione found she didn't even have the mental capacity to focus on Zabini himself. It was too tiring, too horrible, and everything just seemed to be crashing down around her. While she didn't regret betraying the Order—never could, especially if it meant she'd be closer to both Ron and Harry—she did regret betraying Lupin. She wasn't sure what it was that made him react the way he did with her, but Hermione was sure that he wanted to save Harry too. But just like Zabini said, it wasn't about Harry. Not anymore. Not even about Ron. And despite the fact that she hated it, despite the fact that it made her want to weep tears of bitterness, Hermione knew that Ron's insanity would have to wait for another day. For a different time. A time when there wasn't a war waging around them and everyone was double crossing the people they loved most and—

"This is your room," Zabini said, turning to face Hermione. "Remember the rules."

Hermione gave a brief nod, not bothering to look at Zabini. He waited for another moment, and his obsidian eyes swept over her body before he turned and retreated down the hall, leaving Hermione by herself.

She waited in misery for another moment before entering the room, and she didn't even take the time to appreciate the accommodations Zabini had left her in. Even though the room was somewhat lavish and gorgeous, filled with beautiful dark oak and blue silk hangings and sheets, there was no pleasure in it.

The exhaustion had crept up on her mind, and Hermione wasn't feeling emotionally stable enough to handle it. But she was used to sleeping alone, had been used to it for _months_, and even though the thought gnawed on her conscious, making her feel guiltier than before, she tried her hardest to ignore it. Her shoes were the only things to go, and she made her way over to the bed, rubbing her eyes wearily and ready to collapse.

She was so tired of thinking of Ron. Of thinking of Harry.

And she would have collapsed on the bed to sleep the rest of the day away. Had really wanted to. But something was impeding her progress, something that came in the form a beautiful, snowy white owl, and Hermione's heart could only clench in shock as she stared at the familiar bird.

"_Hed_wig," Hermione breathed in disbelief, barely noticing the letter clutched in her beak. But Hermione wasn't stupid, and if Hedwig had appeared, that only meant one thing.

_Harry._

Her fingers shook as she took the letter and began to open it, dreading what could be written in it. Had Harry found Ginny? Was she hurt? Was she dying? Was she dead? Or had he found Ron? And if so, then what condition was he in? And what about Harry himself? The fear gnawed on her viciously, refusing to let go, and it took Hermione two tries to gather her courage and finally pull the parchment out. She bit her lip as she unfolded it, and it was only when she was greeted with completely random numerical equations that she felt the exhaustion suddenly descend upon her mind again.

Numbers? Hermione thought blankly. He was writing her in _numbers_? The anger was there, creeping below the surface, threatening to overwhelm her, but the equations looked slightly familiar, even to her sleep-numbed mind. It took everything Hermione had to quell the sudden stab of irritation, and she was flipping through the pages, attempting to find something with relevance. While at first glance, the equations looked particularly complicated, she was sure that she could translate them with enough sleep. Not to mention the handwriting was familiar—too familiar, if she were being honest, but even as she flipped to the last page, she still hadn't been able to place it.

Frowning, Hermione stared hard at the equations, wishing she had the patience to deal with it. But it was just like Harry to send her something so… so _pointless. _But then again there were times when he was right, times when his ingenuity had been the thing to save her, and—

Hermione's lips pursed as she gazed carefully at some of the runes before placing the first sheets of parchment aside. She was sure that there was something that she was missing, something that was there that she hadn't seen, and she gazed at each paper carefully, looking for something beyond runes, beyond numbers, beyond—

_Asphillis Adelbrandt._

Hermione let out a sharp hiss of breath and dropped the parchment.

"Oh Merlin," Hermione thought as she pressed her fingers to her eyes, hating the sudden hysteria that was bubbling just beneath the surface. She wanted to let it out, wanted to burst out laughing and crying and wanted to be unable to stop but—

Asphillis Adelbrandt.

Hermione felt the tears prick her eyes, and her heart went to lead.

She couldn't believe it had come to this, didn't really want it to. She had gone in with good intentions, gone in knowing that what she was doing was for the best. The best for Harry. For Ron. For _Ginny._ The betrayal of the Order she could handle, but even as the tears suddenly overwhelmed her and she felt nothing but pure misery send her face first into the unfamiliar bed, Hermione couldn't believe it. She only wanted to save her friends.

Betraying the whole wizarding world hadn't been an option.

But she had. And no one would ever forgive her.


	5. Chapter 5 part 1

**Title: **Speak Softly (5/?)

**Summary: **War is reason for insanity, and in the face of danger, insanity can be inescapable. A series of vignettes chronicling the lives of Harry, Hermione, and Ron during the final stretch of the war.

**Pairings: **Harry/Ginny, Harry/Hermione, Ron/Hermione

**Genre: **angst, drama, tragedy, horror, post-hogwarts, pre-HBP (although some elements of HBP will be added for just a touch of flavor)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**Note: **The Hermione/Blaise, Hermione/Remus is killing me, seriously. I can't seem to write them _without_ the implications. Why can't I stick to my original ships? Why? Also, kudos to anyone who can pick up on the movie reference I make.

**Warnings: **_**GORE**_, so if you are the littlest bit squeamish, you might want to skip the section labeled _**February 19**__**th**__**, 2000, 11:57 p.m.**_ Some aspects of the first part of this chapter are _**EXTREMELY DISTURBING**_, so you have been warned. Rating has gone up because of this, unfortunately, but the majority of chapters will tend to stay in the PG-13/T range, for the most part. Any other chapters that go beyond that rating will be labeled with a warning.

**Edited 6/29/2010: **Minor spelling and formatting errors have been corrected.

* * *

_**February 19**__**th**__**, 2000, 11:57 p.m.**_

Blood pooled in the palm of his hands, warm and sticky, and he wasn't sure how he was able to stand it. There was a certain sense of clarity in his mind then, something he hadn't felt in _ages_, and he could feel the hysteria creeping forward, could feel it clouding his mind once more and it sickened him. All around him there was death—not nearly as bad as he had imagined it to be, not nearly as revolting and grisly, but it was still bad, and it was still enough to send his mind into overdrive. It was enough to make his stomach clench as he watched the small puddle of blood in his hands—blood that was not his own—slowly seep through his fingers as he stood there, eyes wide and skin pale.

There was sweat dripping down his chin, and blood was already beginning to crust on the side of his face. The cold air that surrounded him did nothing to cool his burning face, did nothing to help ease the sudden shame and disgust that was coursing through him as the situation began to dawn on him. He could see the body in front of him, could see it being drained of blood, and he knew that he was the cause. Knew that he was the reason why there was someone else dead—_yet another_—and he thought he could put a name to face if he tried hard enough. There was no sick euphoria that could accompany this revelation, no one he could blame it on. Because while he knew he had been there, he could sense the darkness coursing through his veins, pressing all around him, and he knew what had been done.

It had been him—the very person he thought could never do this, could never _kill_—and he had done so without a second thought, had done so without the need of an Imperius Curse, not like before, not like with _them._ And he could remember their names and faces so clearly, could remember the hatred that smeared Zacharias' face when he killed his classmate, had seen the horror on Susan's face and then—oh, oh Ginny had been there once, too, and then it had been Hermione and Harry, but he couldn't remember him, not really, just Hermione, just Her and… and…

_Oh Merlin, _Luna had been there _too_, and he could remember the way that blood gushed down her face after the robed man had punched her, after she had screamed so silently when the Cruciatus Curse was trained on her. But that hadn't been him, that had been the euphoria… that sick, disgusting euphoria that made him feel so dirty all over…

His stomached churned and his hands went slack, allowing the cooling blood to splatter against his tattered sneakers, ignoring the way his shoulders were heaving and his lungs were burning, and oh Merlin, he could already taste the bile, already felt the way his heart started to accelerate in blind panic because it couldn't have true, it _shouldn't_ have been true and—

_Nononononononononononono_, his mind screamed as he jerked back away from the body in front of him. His ankle twisted and he stumbled, and he could hear someone curse, and it couldn't be true, he didn't want it to be true, he _couldn't have and_—

"Pipe down, Weasel," a familiar voice snapped, and Ron twisted around, spitting the dirt from his mouth, his eyes wide.

"Mal—Malfoy!"

The blond turned an irritated look towards him and folded his arms over his chest. "What, Weasley?"

"You—where am I?"

"Finally came to, did he?" Another startling familiar voice spoke out, and suddenly, Ron found himself face to face with a tall handsome black boy whom he couldn't exactly remember by name, but he definitely knew his face. There was a strange, nauseating moment when everything suddenly flashed into darkness, but then it was gone and the name was back, as was the horrible, spine tingling feeling of _belonging_ that he just couldn't seem to place.

"Zabini?" Ron croaked, and a strange smirk seemed to stretch across the other boy's face.

"Right in one," he responded, leaning towards the redhead. "You know, I haven't seen Weasley this lucid since… never. Of course, all of Potter's belongings seem to be defecting these days."

Malfoy frowned at the black boy, but Zabini just straightened and offered Ron a feral grin. "You should see the Weaslette. I have to say, Weasley, I've never heard someone scream as much as she has."

"_What_?" Ron whimpered, his face going very pale. He could sense the truth in the words, in the way both men smiled cruelly, and the anger that he knew he was supposed to feel wasn't there, because despite everything, he could feel that strange prickling on his left forearm, could feel the memory creeping up on him and—his eyes traveled past the two Death Eaters, towards the body that was lying crumpled on the ground, and the bile was so disgusting on his tongue, he couldn't suppress the urge to retch.

His throat burned as he felt himself dry heave, and his stomach was clenching so painfully he didn't think he would be able to stop. His fingers were digging into the soft earth, and distantly, he could hear the voices swarming around him, invading his mind, haunting him. The were like tiny whispers against his consciousness, tugging and pulling oh so deliciously, and for one, startling, breath taking moment, he could feel something, cool, like water, trickling over his skin. It was flowing into his mouth, spilling down his throat, and then he was choking on his vomit, sputtering as it clogged his nasal passages. Zabini and Malfoy were still, exchanging disgusted looks, and Ron could almost remember a time when silver eyes, eyes like Malfoy's were trained on him, apologizing.

_Better luck next time, _they seemed to say, but that memory had seemed so far away, filled with stars and mists and a cold, hollow feeling that he didn't want to place.

_Death gives no mercy, my pet._

Oh how he could remember, no matter how distant it seemed, could remember the way voices continued to hiss in his ears, the way he walked out the back door of his house, towards the lake, where _they_ were waiting. They. Them. His followers. The Death Eaters. And… and—

His vomiting ceased, and he lifted a hand and placed his sleeves against his nose, blowing it harshly. The liquid burning his nostrils, stung, but there was nothing he could do. The bile was disgusting in his mouth, bitter and thick and hot, and he spat as much as he could out. It did nothing to help, but there was some relief, some pain to go with the immeasurable guilt. But shame was there, and blood was still on his hands, soaked in his sleeves. Dirt stuck to his palms, and it was slightly amusing the way it did, because nothing was ever so filthy as blood, nothing could ever be, and instead of someone he barely knew or wanted to get along with, it was—

_Skin, soft and gentle beneath his rough hands, willing, oh how willing it had been, and his kisses were bruising, because there was nothing else he could be, not with so much hate coursing through his veins, not with that empty hollowness that seemed to complete him so well, because in the end, it wasn't _him_ she loved, had never been, and—_

It stopped, because Zabini reached forward and jerked him to his feet a slight sneer on his face.

"Look sharp," he hissed.

"Get your hands off of me you filthy Death Eater," Ron snapped, jerking away from him, a vicious glare on his face.

Malfoy's lips twitched. "I wouldn't be so condescending if I were you, _Weasel_. You're one of us, too, now."

"Liar!" Ron shouted, moving back. He reached into his pockets, fumbling for his wand, but it wasn't there, couldn't have been there, because the last place he had left it was—

_Don't listen to them, Her—_

Zabini smirked. "I'd check your arm if I were you," he responded with a hint of ill-at-ease triumph in his voice. Malfoy shot him another strange look, but Zabini just ignored him, his dark obsidian eyes blazing against Ron's freckled skin. The discomfort was mounting, but Zabini's eyes were calming, comforting, and the thought enraged Ron so much that his face twisted into the dirtiest scowl he could imagine.

"I'm not doing anything," Ron hissed, his hands clenched into fists at his side. He could feel the blood causing his fingers to stick together, could feel the tiny rocks digging into the flesh of his palm, and the tiny slivers of pain were almost welcome. If he was feeling pain, that meant that it took away from the guilt, the shame, the disgust, the—

_I thought it was virtue; it was really honor. The characters are similar, you see…_

"Merlin," Malfoy huffed, irritated. "Shall I restrain him, or will you?"

"I'll leave the honor of preparing the body up to you," Zabini answered, a strange look on his face. Malfoy arched a brow, but Zabini just offered a smirk in response before pulling out his wand and turning towards Ron. Ron could feel the anger rising, moving so close to the surface—no way would he allow this… this filthy disgusting _Death Eater_ touch him, no matter how many lies they told him, no matter how much the denial caused his arm to burn painfully (and oh, how delicious that felt, because there wasn't enough pain before, not to take away the guilt, but it was getting worse and worse and Ron found that he loved it.)

"I'll kill you," Ron bit out harshly, but Zabini smiled wickedly at him.

"Really Weasley," Zabini answered, a bored tone to his voice. His lips twitched as Ron raised his hands, raised fists covered in dirt and blood and had to restrain the urge to laugh at the way Ron's face paled at the sight of them. He waited for Ron to gain his composure before continuing. "You aren't really in the position to be making threats. You are our comrade, after all. I highly doubt the Dark Lord would be… pleased… to learn of you _defecting_ so soon after being accepted into his service."

"You're lying!" Ron snarled, and Zabini affected a surprised look.

"Never," he breathed mockingly, a horrible smile stretching his normally handsome features.

"You are!" Ron bellowed vehemently, and the panic was already rearing up, ready to drown him. "I would never take that bastard's Mark. I would never join him! You cursed me, I know it!"

"Did I?" Zabini asked, and Ron couldn't stop himself from shaking at the blatant amusement on the other boy's face. There was a slight huff of annoyance, and he turned slightly, away from Zabini's smirking visage towards Malfoy. Malfoy who was staring at Zabini intently. Malfoy, whose brow was furrowed oh so slightly, and Ron could feel the sickness churning in his stomach once more as he saw what Malfoy was doing. Blood was pooling and crusting on his shoes, thick and dark. There was blood on his hands, dripping, oh so beautifully, but the thought made Ron sick, even as he watched Malfoy's hand move slightly. Even as he watched the tiny glint of the razor move over the person's skin, the person that he had… that Ron had…

His stomach revolted again, just as Malfoy slid the razor under the thick layer of flesh, pulling skin away from muscle, and Ron found that his knees were too weak to hold him up, even as they connected to the ground. But his arms were locked, even as the skin of his palms scraped against the ground, pulling flesh away from flesh, and _Merlin _why wouldn't he stop _burning_? His throat and his eyes and his lungs and his mouth and his nostrils and his face and his hands and everything was fire and it wouldn't _stop_, not even when Zabini grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him against the nearest tree, glaring at him fiercely.

"You've done much worse than skinning a body, Weasley."

"No I haven't! I would never do something like that, I'm not like _you!_" Ron shouted in a fierce desperation, pushing against Zabini. Zabini stumbled slightly, an irritated look flashing across his face before he pulled out his wand. It took only a second, but suddenly silver cords appeared around Ron's body and had him collapsing on the ground, his face hitting the earth hard. A sick crunching sound reverberated through the silence, and Zabini heaved an irritated sigh, even as blood filled Ron's mouth and spurted from his nostrils.

"Fucking Weasleys," Zabini muttered, booting Ron in his ribs. "The Weaslette wasn't nearly as vocal as he is," Zabini continued in disgust.

"That's because you didn't feel the need to break her mind," Malfoy answered blandly. Zabini shot a scathing look over his shoulder before kneeling next to Ron and hauling him up by his shoulders, ignoring the enraged look on the redheads face. Zabini propped him up against a tree, but Ron wasn't sure whether it was out of the kindness of his heart or if he was doing it just so he could get another clean shot. It hardly mattered anyways. Ron spat the blood out of his mouth, sneering as Zabini's face darkened once it spattered against his shoes. Just behind him, he could see Malfoy cleave off another layer of skin and set it aside.

He tried everything in his power not to get sick, but he could remember the feel of wet flesh slicking his hands, slippery entrails wrapped around his arms and—_oh gods, _Ron thought deliriously as he slipped forward and started vomiting once again. It was so difficult, trying not to lay in his own vomit, but Zabini wasn't helping and he could feel the hot liquid against his cheek, burning it, and the tears that were pricking at his eyes _weren't stopping and_—

_Loony Luna Lovegood, _he gurgled through the sour bile, the tears burning his eyes. _I can't have… I wouldn't have… I _couldn't_, I—_

But the memory was thick and fresh in his mind then, and Luna hadn't screamed, not once, but he could remember the way it seemed so loud, the way her mouth spilled open and something as sweet as poison spilled out. It was dark and murky and oh so beautiful, and he had found himself in that place once again, trapped in water up to his waist, with his wand… his wand… where was his _wand?_ Because he had left it, hadn't he? Had left it with her… _Her. _Yes, Her, the one, the girl, the one who was supposed to stay by his side, just like old times. Old times. The time before the water and Loony Luna Lovegood and _Merlin, _he could still feel her blood, hot and sick and disgusting, sliding over his arms, dripping off his fingers and the snakes had been there too, slithering up his arm, doing revolting things as he sawed away at her flesh, because she had known about the birds, had known… _everything._

_Stupid, insufferable, know-it-all._

But that wasn't right because that was _Her_ and he had never liked snakes to begin with, which was why he _hated_ Zabini and Malfoy and couldn't bring himself to hate who Malfoy was carving up—

But the vomit had stopped, and in the distance, Ron could see the mist creeping closer, along with the euphoria, and he knew that he had to do something.

"Show me," he croaked through a raw throat, and both Zabini and Malfoy turned to stare at him. "The—the Mark. Show me the Mark."

A vicious grin split Malfoy's face and he stood, sauntering over to Ron. He freed his arm, not even wincing as he stepped in Ron's steaming vomit, not caring that his hands were still covered in blood and chunks of flesh were stuck under his fingernails. He lifted the razor and to cut through Ron's robes, and it was everything Ron could do not to shiver at the sight. He felt his blood drain from his face as the razor dipped ridiculously close to his wrists and… his heart raced as he saw the thick, jagged scars covering his left arm, could see where his skin had been gouged out and ripped apart. His breath hitched the higher Malfoy got, and the razor caused a thin sliver of flesh to part, and the red—oh, Merlin, the _red_—beaded at the surface of his skin, stinging and hurting and—

_Loony Luna Lovegood, she died as well as any girl could._

A maniacal grin started to split his face, but then the Dark Mark was there in all its splendor, black against white freckled skin, but… there were no more freckles, not anymore, just horrific scars, big and large and dips and groves that weren't supposed to be there. Malfoy pulled back, a strange pleased smile on his face, and Ron couldn't help but notice that he wanted to smile, too, because there were words in his head, words that made little sense and he had _been there_ when they found her, hiding in the shadows. Had been there when all they could find was pools upon pools of blood and slick, slippery entrails, and _oh gods her face_. It was the only thing he had left in tact, after they killed her, was the only thing that he hadn't been allowed to get his hands on and—

_She thought she could fly, but instead she just died._

He had sang to her, while he was killing her, that much he could remember. It wasn't the same, not like with Zacharias and Susan, not at all. He could still taste the euphoria on his tongue, even as he said those fatal words, even as the world flashed green—Avada Kedavra, so easy to speak those words, unlike everything else, unlike saying Her name and… he could still remember the slight looks of horror and repulsion on the looks of the Death Eaters that surrounded him when he said it, like it was nothing more than a sweet little nursery rhyme.

_And how could killing people be so silly? Why, that's quite the mystery._

There had been tomatoes, floating above her hair before it happened. Tomatoes and little bugs that were red and ate his flesh. Critters that the snake couldn't destroy, that the Mark couldn't get rid of, and even then, the voices had _helped_ him, because he knew what She would say. Knew that She would tell him how he would never be creative to make up such a beautiful song, so lovely, so…

"Bloody hell," Zabini muttered as he shook his head in resignation. "Weasley's almost as bad as Gra—"

But Malfoy had turned to look at him then, and Ron could feel something creeping along his skin as Zabini's mouth snapped shut and a frown creased his brow.

_She accepted death with so much grace, and all anyone could find was her face…_

He wondered if Luna was able to tell he enjoyed it. He had to have, even after he had finished, waiting in the shadows with Them there, whispering those horrific words to him, words that he would never speak in his life, even though they had.

_She liked Ravens and Griffins and things that weren't real, and when she died, pain was all she could feel…_

"What was that, Blaise?" Malfoy asked, and there was something strange about him, something that Ron couldn't pinpoint. It was in his expression, in the way that he was holding himself. But instead of answering, Zabini just lifted a single shoulder before pulling out his wand and pointed it at the captive redhead, strengthening the bonds, but leaving Ron's arm visible. He could see the Dark Mark so largely grotesque against his flesh, and for the first time since he saw it, Ron wondered what his parents would think. Would they hate him, even though he knew he hadn't taken it willingly? But then he remembered walking out the door, to where They were and—he _couldn't_ have. He was so much better than them, so much better than those heartless, murdering _bastards_ and… Oh Merlin, _Luna._

_She tried not to cry, she tried not to scream, but it was all in vain, or so it would seem_.

And Zacharias and Susan and the Others. The Others who were supposed to be important, but Ron couldn't even begin to fathom why, not when Malfoy turned away from Zabini with a scowl on his face and went back to carving the flesh off of that person's face, that person he knew so well because how could he have forgotten? His sandy colored hair was coated in blood, and his face… they were leaving that, _too_, just like Luna's. Because whatever they were creating didn't _have_ a face, didn't need one, because they were so… so… so _inferior_, and—

_It was so divine, cutting her apart, but nothing was so sweetly poisonous as her small tasty heart._

Zabini moved towards Malfoy and left Ron sitting by himself, staring at the Mark on his arm, letting his past catch up to him. Gods it was so difficult, not wanting to cry, because he knew that he should, but any tears wouldn't have been wanted, wouldn't have been necessary. Zabini didn't even care that his nose was throbbing with so much pain that shame was hard to feel, didn't even care that Ron hated the sight of needles, even as he pulled a needle and several spools of thread out and started sewing the disgusting pieces of flesh together. He felt so sick, sitting there watching it, that the Mark was so much more beautiful. He wanted to ask them how they were able to handle it, what they did to stop, but the words were still playing in his head, like a never ending record. Even if he did forget, even if the euphoria did choke him and drown him, he would remember _this_, because it was all he had left of Luna, and for one brief delirious moment, he thought that he should think up a song for _Seamus_, _too._

But the voices weren't there to urge him on, not this time, and Ron found that he hated it.

_Beating and moving and look at the blood! Even she knew that nothing could be done…_

It took hours, really, to do everything that was needed, and each time Ron glanced over at them, more and more blood seemed to appear out of nowhere. He could still see the sandy colored hair sticking up everywhere, the shock on his face, but no betrayal. There was no betrayal because betrayal was a hard feeling to fathom, especially when one couldn't even begin to understand why their supposed friend was there, smiling sickly, horrifically. But it hadn't been that way with Luna, no. Because he had been talking about Her then, not laughing and teasing and mocking, not the way he had been with Seamus. With Luna it had been so different because she was already broken, even if it didn't seem like it. With Luna, she had already been trapped inside her own mind, side by side with his, and—he wasn't broken. He didn't want to believe it.

_She lay there bleeding and crying and saying her lie, _

"_No it would not be nice to finally die, because I am a bird and I know how to fly."_

_How sad it had been, to have no goodbyes._

But all evidence pointed to the contrary, really, and that was hard, because he knew that the Death Eaters had something to do with it, those so sick, sanctimonious _bastards_, and he would kill them, every last fucking one of them and he would enjoy it, just as he had enjoyed Luna's and…

_But killing people silly… why surely you jest! And it's not even you, who should know best._

Seamus. Bright, happy, perfect Seamus. Seamus who was like the Others, but not. The Others were more important, even if he couldn't remember them. But he had to. He had to because if he didn't, then he knew that the voices would mock him. The voices which spoke such dark, vicious lies, just like Luna had, just like…

_I've known Her, I've seen Her, and she is surely not you. But even if she were here, I wouldn't know what to do._

"Merlin," he hissed, and both Death Eaters stopped their violent acts to peer at him. Zabini's hands were slicked with blood now, and Ron was almost certain that some of it was his own, especially since he kept cursing every time he pricked himself with the needle. Malfoy smirked at him more often then not, but Ron could see the suspicion tugging at the corner of his mouth like some sort of secret kiss, and Ron wanted to tear it away. There were no secret kisses for Malfoy, never could be, because he was too broken and tainted to deserve it.

"Is our Mr. Weasley leaving us again?" Zabini asked in a mocking voice that sounded so unlike his own. Malfoy frowned and winced before turning away, and Ron could hear him muttering something about insane blood traitors, but there was no anger. Just pain. Pain because the longer he thought about Luna, the harder it became to stop and he couldn't tear his eyes away from where Malfoy and Zabini worked. It was almost mesmerizing watching as they worked, razor and needle glinting in the moonlight, and oh, how lovely the moon was, so gorgeous and bright and Ron couldn't wait for it to be full, although he couldn't quite remember why.

It was probably Luna. Luna always had a way of bringing out the strangest emotions in him, after all. Even though he hated it. Even though… even though…

_I hate you, I loathe you, seeing you breathe fills me with dread. Oh how nice it was Loony, to see you finally dead…_

Dean would be angry, if he saw Seamus now. If he saw what Malfoy was doing, but Ron found that it didn't matter. Because Seamus was dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, and he had been the one to do it. And the euphoria hadn't been there, just like he expected it not to be, so they would hate him. Just like the Others. And the Others would hate him, only because of Her.

His insides seemed to twist at the thought, and for one quick second, he was almost sure that the Mark on his arm started to burn just a little bit blacker, but the only pain he could feel was in his head, and Zabini and Malfoy hadn't stopped, were still working, and even then, Zabini was already moving onto his fifth spool of thread, cursing and fussing all the while. He wondered if Luna ever felt this kind of pain when she was dying, too.

_It didn't hurt, I didn't scream, no not one bit, and there you were thinking I'd have a fit._

There was one frustrating moment when Malfoy had to turn the body over and continue cutting from there, and Ron had to squeeze his eyes shut together tightly, because there were burns all over his back, burns that he had put there himself, and shouldn't have been used to this? But he wasn't, and he knew it, and he was sure that Zabini and Malfoy knew it too. They refused to check on him, even when he started dry heaving once again. It was so hard—too hard—watching as they mutilated his friend's corpse (_a corpse he had created himself) _and he knew that it was unfair. So unfair to Seamus, because he knew that he hadn't seen Ron in so long, and their reunion was supposed to be happy. But then again, his reunion with Luna was supposed to be happy, too, and all he could do was kill her. Just like he had killed Susan and Zacharias. But he hadn't mutilated their body, not the way that they were doing to Seamus's. Not the way he had done to Luna's.

_But killing you, Luna, it was so easy, and not even as I ripped out your heart did I feel queasy_

When they finished, the iciness seemed to have seeped into the marrow of his bones, leaving him stiff and achy. It was hard for him to breathe, to see, and it was only when Zabini turned around with the finished product—_nothing but an empty shell_—that both he and Malfoy sneered.

"Crying, Weasley?" Malfoy asked. "I would have thought you better than that."

"Can't think too highly of a blood traitor, now can we?" Zabini asked in retort, but Malfoy just gave him a dirty look. Ron was confused by what was going on between them, confused about the tears that had crusted on his face. A thick layer of dried blood covered the Death Eaters once shiny shoes, and Ron wanted to hate them. He really did. But he had been the one to kill Seamus. And Zacharias. And Susan. And _Luna._ And oh how their deaths would haunt him because he should have been stronger, should have been able to fight the euphoria off the way that Other one was. But it wasn't Her, couldn't have been her, because she wasn't strong, _either_, and… Malfoy walked up to him and tapped his wand against the bindings, an unsatisfied look crossing his face as the cords disappeared.

Ron was barely there when Malfoy touched his wand to the Mark, could barely feel the burn surrounding him, bursting through that aching numbness as the pain in his head continued to intensify. It was almost as if someone were trying to keep him away, trying to draw him from that feeling of life, of a life he didn't deserve of a life he didn't—

"_Stand, my pet._" And that coldness was something that Ron was disturbingly familiar with, even if it did sound unnatural. He could see the Dark Lord's mouth moving, but there was something different about him, even as the shadows that surrounded him surged slightly. Zabini and Malfoy were on their knees, kissing the hem of the large shadow before moving away and moving Seamus' skinless body; bile rose up in his throat at that, but he managed to swallow it back down as he stumbled to his feet and forward, bowing at the feet of the Dark Lord, the shadowed lord, the… the mists were there again, creeping up, but the Dark Lord touched the side of his face tenderly, stopping him from going any further than kneeling.

"_That is not for you, my precious little pet_." And oh, how sick that made him feel, knowing that he was valued above everyone else, knowing that he wasn't as filthy or degraded as those others, because he should have been, especially after what he had done to Luna, but… the Dark Lord was helping him to his feet, and there was a strange, contemplative look on his face as he stared as Ron's tear stained face before turning away.

"Draw the pentacles," the Dark Lord ordered quietly, and for the first time, his voice was real. It was cold and chilling and horrible, and Zabini and Malfoy bowed deeply before turning the earth before them into cement. There were two small sections that were still earth however, in the center, and Ron knew they were going to draw around them, even if he didn't know why. The chalk was stained red in both Malfoy's and Zabini's hands before he even realized what was happening. The shapes were perfect and precise, and he could almost see Her there, with huge frizzy hair and those expressive brown eyes. But then he looked up at the moon, and all he could see was long, blood-soaked blonde hair and rotting tomatoes and cracks lined with crimson.

Ron was lead into the first pentacle, stood over the earth. He could almost feel it reaching up and curling around his legs, and he wanted to get lost in it, but then Seamus' shell was there, laid neatly across the pentacle opposite him. It looked like rubber, bloody disgusting rubber with thick spools of thread through it. But there was no face. Just a blank, shattered canvas, one that didn't mean anything, and Ron couldn't look at it as Seamus anymore, because Seamus hadn't kept his face, not the way Luna had, and Ron wished that hers had disappeared, too.

Malfoy moved up next to him, and positioned his hands in front of him. Acting on an instinct Ron didn't know he had, he cupped his hands in front of him and watched as Malfoy lifted a flask and tipped it over his hands, filling them with blood. Red, thick, warm, sticky blood. A persons blood. _Seamus' blood._ And oh how he wanted to vomit right then, even as his hands were filled to the brim. He could feel the thick substance trickling through the cracks of his fingers, just like last time, and just like last time, he had the sudden disgusting urge to bring his hands to lips and drink his fill from the liquid that wasn't water and—no, _nononononononono_, he thought frantically, wanting it to spill.

But then the Dark Lords eyes were on him, just as red as the blood in his hands, and Ron found he couldn't, even if he wanted to. More of the blood was poured onto the Seamus-shell, and then Zabini was stepping forward and tipping another flask over Ron's head, a liquid that was cold and clear, and Ron whimpered as dirt and blood and sweat trickled into his eyes, but he didn't dare move. Another motion was made over the Seamus-shell, and then they all stood back, waiting, watching, murmuring. Murmuring something Ron couldn't understand, even if he tried, because the mist was suddenly clinging to his bones, chilling him, freezing him, and voices he wanted to forget were coming. Voices that sounded like the Others, the Others that would hate him forever and ever and he wasn't supposed to be _feeling_ this sort of violent desperation. Not now and not ever and She would have kept it away from him, just like she had promised, just like she had sworn to do and—

(_hadn't_)

He was someplace familiar. Someplace cold. Someplace filled with shadows and whispers and was dark and cavernous. Ron stepped forward, making sure not to spill what cooling in his hands. He could see the water lapping up against the black sand, could see the brittle, vicious man watching him from the shadows in that obsidian boat that reminded Ron so much of Zabini's eyes. He paused at the edge before creeping into the cool water, unsure of what he had to do, but knowing that he needed to, knowing that it was important. The voices were trickling in his mind then, silver tendrils of thought which kept looping and detaching whenever he tried to grasp them, so he stopped as he moved forward into the water he wasn't supposed to be in. As he moved forward into the water that was too cold to be real, but too _searing_ to be just his imagination. (And oh, how pitiful his imagination really was…)

Something twined around his legs, startling him, but the pain in his head was slowly receding away into numbness, and he could feel the pull, tugging him closer, towards the abyss that was stretched out in front of him. It was so cold, this familiar water, and he wanted nothing more than to continue forward, to feel the currents lapping at his waist and then his belly and his elbows and his chest and his neck and drowning him, drowning him so beautifully that it would _burn_, and he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to swallow sharp jagged chunks of ice (and he had this thought before once, knew he had, but couldn't place it, not with Them around, no way, not never).

He tilted forward and dipped his hands into the water—the stream, the river, his river, my river, Their _River_—a strange feeling settling over him as the blood curled away in odd little tendrils only to be replaced by milky white water. He frowned but pulled back, unsure of what else he was supposed to do, but then the man in the boat as black as Zabini's eyes was moving closer, and the fear spiked in his heart so fast that was moving out of the River before he even realized what he was doing. The black sands made it hard to move, but instinct made Ron open his mouth, made him want to say something, and only thing he could process was the numbness in his mind.

"_Master._"

"_Come to me, my pet_."

The water was still cold in his hands, even as the cavern faded and disappeared. There was a strange, shocked silence as the world seemed to melt into place around him, and he could hear the voices singing in his head as the silver light of the moon beat down on his back. He waited a moment, glancing at his _Masterenemygod_ before stepping forward, following the thin line of blood that had been spilled to connect the two pentacles together. Ron wasn't sure why he was doing this, but the numbness was coming faster and faster the longer the moon continued to shine on him, and he sprinkled the milky water over the Seamus-shell and stepped back into his pentacle, watching closely as it seemed to solidify and fill.

Water surged up from beneath the shell, and it was flowing through the gaps of flesh, making it seem as though there was something _real_ inside the Seamus-shell that had no face. And suddenly, it was complete and standing and moving. But there was no face, not on the Seamus-shell, and Ron could feel a strong hand take his elbow and lead him away from the pentacles, over to the place that skinless-Seamus was, the one with its face still in tact.

Zabini held his elbow for a moment longer as Malfoy went and started cleaning up the pentacles, scrubbing away the blood. Their Master was walking around the Seamus-shell which wasn't a shell anymore, examining it carefully. There was a long drawn out moment when everything seemed to be creeping back into his mind, but then Zabini was pulling him closer to the tree and whispering as quietly as possible, "Granger is trying to find you."

Ron blinked, unable to comprehend who Zabini was talking about, because he didn't know a Granger, just a Her—a Her that was his own, but couldn't be, because the Her that was his own loved the Other Him, the Other Him whom he had loved, too, but the Other Her loved the Other Him more and—the pain was back, but the voices were trying to beat it back, and soon, all Ron could feel and see was the aching numbness and the beautiful face of a bloodied, dying moon.

_So you see, we are different, you and I…_

_For you have no wings, and I know I can fly…_

The moon was at its most beautiful when it was painted red.

…_For I got to live, while you got to die…_

"…Loony Luna Lovegood, she died as well as any girl could…"

* * *

_**February 20**__**th**__**, 2000, 9:13 a.m.**_

_X Day, X Month, X Year_

_I am trying my hardest to make it through this. Every time I come into this place filled with hatred and malcontent, I find myself wishing for my friends. Wishing for James and Sirius and even Peter, because they never made me suffer through this much hatred and grief. It is surprising, in and of itself, that I could be susceptible to these horrible feelings, especially knowing what I know. Yes, life has been difficult for me, but there are people that have loved me, people that I have loved as well. Lily loved me, just as James and Sirius and Peter had. She accepted me, and her kindness seemed to extend to her son, who accepted me for who I was. No, it hardly mattered that I am a werewolf to him; it was the fact that I could have been assisting someone who was the supposed murderer of his parents that rankled him, and I am only glad that he has come to accept me as well. There are people all around me, within the Order, who accept me for what I truly am, werewolf aside, but here, in the Underground, there is no one to love them. It is hard living a life, knowing that people scorn you and hate you based off of some misplaced stereotype, but that is the way life is. I am lucky that I was able to find the people who cared for me; otherwise I would be living this hateful, bitter existence, just as they are._

_But that doesn't mean it's easy. Every time I associate with them, I can feel myself falling further and further into their own dark emotions, feel myself connecting with them. Fenrir Greyback is a constant visitor in this safe haven, although I've never had the chance of visiting when he is near. The very thought of him puts me on edge, knowing that he is the one that carved this curse into my body, and I know he would recognize me. He spreads his lies through this sanctuary like cancer, infecting everyone around him, and the longer I stay there, the easier it becomes for me to fall victim to those lies. Albus himself has never lead me astray, but when I am with my kind, people who understand my pain and misfortune the way that they do, it becomes increasingly difficult to put my faith in him. I try not to stay at the sanctuary too long, but the more I go, the more I want to stay. _

_Hatred assaults me at times, makes me blind with rage and lust—I'm nowhere near as close to blood lust as Greyback, but I feel myself getting closer. Closer to that point where I will suddenly start craving it, just as more and more werewolves are beginning to crave it. Is it natural for me to feel this way? Certainly not—James and Sirius would have been appalled… they would have been disgusted with me, turned their backs on me… hated me, but then they wouldn't be able to understand. No one understands. They look at me with respect every time I come back with names… yes, so and so are more than willing to fight against the Dark Lord, but more than not, much more people are willing to fight for him. The strain becomes greater and greater, and the longer I'm surrounded by people who share my disease, the more I want the curse within me to take control. _

_It has to be easier than teetering between the two extremes. Is it Remus J. Lupin who is in control? Or the curse? At times, when the hatred becomes too much to bear, I want it to be the curse, but then something else tells me that I shouldn't give into it so easily. Something tells me that I should step away from that anger, because there are people who want me as I truly am, as Remus, not as the curse. Not as the werewolf. This madness is something that I must control, something that I must not let control me, and the only way for me to do that now is through true, human contact. Touch._

_Lily was always more than willing to hold me; something which I could not afford to let Sirius or James do. It was rather difficult, knowing that I needed someone to hold me, but being unable to ask them. They wouldn't have understood. Towards the end, I was sure that Sirius was beginning to, but even then… _

_I want this hatred to go away. I want to stop feeling it. The Underground is becoming more and more of a lost cause, and each time this hatred of the world begins to consume me, I want to tell Albus to give up. The Dark Lord is far more influential than he is, because while he can promise asylum in the future, it is the present that we need, and Albus can not give them that. No one can, I don't think, but the Dark Lord is the only one promising them revenge on those that have wronged them._

_We are losing, and I am sure that Albus knows that. The werewolves will not go over to him; they will merely turn the other cheek. They want to kill, they want to spill blood. And, if given the chance, they will make their own corpses and no one will be safe. _

_I want to stop this, but I can't. The rage, the madness, the anger, it's becoming more frequent and I am truly afraid. I'm tired of attempting to latch onto those around me, those who don't care, those who can't help. It's pathetic really, because the only one who seems to have the same calming effect as Lily is the only one I can't approach. It makes her too uncomfortable. But I want to apologize to her, even though I can't… she wouldn't believe it. And I can't attach myself to her, either, as much as I would like to, because then he would never forgive me._

_And Harry's love is far more important than my own comfort, besides. _

A frown flickered across Hermione's face as she read the neat script in front of her, unsure of what to make of it. It was obvious that it was Lupin's journal, obvious that it was chronicling his progress in the Werewolf Sanctuary, but before, it had been nothing more than names and facts, things that were useful to the Order and now… now it had morphed into something completely different, something more personal, and Hermione couldn't help but feel the faint stirring of unease uncoil behind her lungs.

The pages in the small black journal looked well worn, as though Lupin had read over them time and time again, and Hermione bit her lip, unsure if she could continue.

It had been easy as first, going through the journal. She had yet to tackle the notes, had yet to tackle that abnormally large text that made her heart throb whenever she thought of the name that had once adorned it, but still… it was hard now, seeing so much personal information on one page. There was that sick little desire to continue reading, that sick little desire to put off the inevitable, to put off Harry's stupid letter filled with such dark promises and—she had tried looking at the equations, but the closer she got to the last pages, the more panicked she became, and suddenly, all she could do was bury her face in Lupin's notebook filled with dry facts about whom was a possible convert and whom was definitely dark. There were more neutrals within the Sanctuary than Hermione thought possible, and while she had been flipping through and reading the book earlier, a vague sense of guilt plagued her. Would Lupin be able to remember the names of the people whom he was trying to garner support from? Would he be able to remember the names of the werewolves who were definite enemies and wanted nothing to do with the Order or the Light side?

It was a strange, discomfiting thought, knowing that Hermione might have put Lupin into more potential danger, but with the way each page was creased, Hermione knew that Lupin must have looked over the book a thousand times by then. There were charts and diagrams written through the book, along with short entries about each person's personality, the number of werewolves within the Sanctuary, the number of werewolves which left at any given time.

And that had been easy to read. Had been easy to deal with. But then… then he got personal. And those last two pages didn't seem to be nearly as creased as the rest of the book, didn't seem to be looked at nearly as much as it could have been, and Hermione knew that it had to be a more recent entry. An entry which Lupin didn't allow Dumbledore to see. Because if he had… oh, if Dumbledore had, there would have been dire consequences with Remus, because even though the negative emotion wasn't apparent, the implications were still _there, _but all that seemed to bleed from the page was a sort of quiet, helpless desperation that Hermione wished she could change. Her heart clenched at the thought of Lupin needing her, knowing that she had betrayed him, even though he relied on her so _completely…_

She didn't know what caused her to turn the page, didn't know what caused her to go against her better instincts, but she couldn't bear thinking about the lingering betrayal, not when Lupin needed her so.

It left her feeling filthy inside.

_X Day, X Month, X Year_

_It's getting harder and harder to stay away. She's been with me almost constantly now, and while I'm not spending nearly as much time in the Underground Sanctuary as I usually do, I still feel myself feeling drawn to her, wanting to seek comfort. She hasn't noticed since that first time, which is a great relief, but even when she's there I can't stop from being near her. Tonks helps a bit, acting as a barrier because I know that Tonks can give just as much comfort as she can. Except… it takes longer, and Tonks doesn't understand, just feels that continuous abundance of pity for me._

_Tonks has told me that she loves me before, but that is not something that I can put much credit to. Tonks is just as young as she is, even though she is far younger, and if she were to get attached to me to the point that Tonks had, I would most likely disregard her as well. But that is, perhaps, my own wishful thinking, a thought that leaves me feeling bitter and hateful. There is already someone she has, and just as she has been my comfort, the only thing I can give her in return is comfort as well. Tonks doesn't understand this, the camaraderie between the two of us… an unspoken agreement that we have yet to truly acknowledge. It is perhaps, because of my age that I was able to pick up on it before she ever will, and in a sense, I am grateful for this. But I also find myself growing increasingly frustrated with her lack of acknowledgment as well as worried… worried because she seems more and more lifeless each time I see her, because she wants nothing more than to find Harry, but can't. She doesn't know where to start. _

_The loneliness is just as apparent in her as it is in me, I suppose, and we are seeking each other out. Most of her attempts at conversation are met with bitter silence, but then she is always asking questions that only she herself can answer. I have no right to appease her fears, no right to tell her that everything will be fine because that is not the truth. If everything were fine, then she would have them both. Harry would be with her, just as Ron would, and Ginny would be safe. While I am not entirely sure the extent of her relationship with the two Weasley children, I do know that she feels a great deal of love for them no matter what she may think._

_But she is just a child. A child who does not understand what it truly means to be alone. But it doesn't take away the hurt. Harry abandoned her. Left her. I could see the betrayal, the resentment whenever his name is brought up, and I pray to Merlin that she continues to love him despite the mistakes that he has—_

Hermione flipped through more pages, unable to read anymore, but being unable to stop.

_Tonks has finally confronted me about her, but there was little I could say. There was a quiet desperation in her eyes when she spoke to me, one that was hard to disregard, and I can't help but think that the depth of her feelings towards me go beyond what I originally thought. While I am not completely averse to a relationship with Tonks, it will get in the way of other things. _

_I do not think that I can be completely comfortable around Tonks, no matter how wonderful her feelings are. No one has ever told me they were in love with me before. I feel sick just thinking about it._

And that page was turned as well, because Hermione couldn't continue to read it, not when she was beginning to feel increasingly ill herself.

_Her life is at risk, I know it. While she may be more than willing to hide behind the facade that she is perfectly safe, I am not ignorant, nor am I a child. Her liaisons with that Death Eater must desist, although I know that my advice would be disregarded. I hate feeling this way, feeling as though my comfort zone is finally crumbling around me. I hate the fact that she would so willingly put herself into danger, especially when people have done everything in their power to protect her._

_Like Harry. He abandoned her, yes, but she can not fully understand why he did it. Why he left. _

_I do, because it was the same reason I left Harry when he was just a child. Someone as attached and in love with someone the way she is with Harry would never be able to appreciate the thought behind it, but in the same token, I would feel betrayed as well. Just as I feel betrayed whenever she grows distant, just as she had when it came to this unknown Death Eater. But while her safety is important, I feel as though she can handle the Death Eater, despite the anger that fills me whenever I think of him and her alone. So many things are at risk, if only she lets them out. She is not a vault, not invincible, and even vaults can broken into._

_But even if a Death Eater were to try to and take her mind, it wouldn't be that difficult. She is already broken._

_Just as Ron—_

…_She is slipping farther away… It's too hard to reach her…_

…_Albus knows, but is afraid to admit it…_

…_she is too broken, too lonely…_

…_I don't want to see her shatter…_

…_I can't stand to see her like this anymore…_

…_too much curiosity on her part and it pains me to have to keep secrets from her, but it's for her own good. She lives to learn, but if she were to learn about this, I am not sure just how it would break her. The majority of the pertinent information is always kept with Albus, but I need to keep a sufficient amount around for my own research. She keeps attempting to interfere, however, and I know it is just a matter of time before she gets angry enough to take matters into her own hands. She was never one that liked being led around, after all… _

…_she lost herself again today… keeps getting lost… must try to help her… too attached…_

_**I want to save her.**_

Hermione felt as though her heart was going to shatter then, felt as though her chest had become concave because it was too hard to _breathe_ and—

_I want to save her._

A bitterness unlike anything that Hermione had ever felt before surged through her then, and she slammed the book shut before tossing it aside, unable to handle anymore. Reading through Lupin's personal thoughts were not difficult, not in the slightest just… uncomfortable. And now—now Hermione wasn't sure how she would be able to handle herself. She didn't know how to take his brutally honest observations, his quiet, subtle worry. Didn't know how to take those raw, honest and open emotions because she shouldn't have had to, not when she had Harry (_but you don't, not anymore, he's belongs to Ginny now_, a vicious little thought chanted in her head) not when she had Ron. But even now she didn't have him, not when she kept forgetting herself, not when he couldn't even _remember. _The insanity seemed to consume him, and if Lupin was right, it was consuming _her_ as well, and as logical a thought as it was, Hermione couldn't believe it. She just couldn't.

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she was still functioning whereas Ron was being drugged up on potions and was burning his veins with Firewhiskey but it didn't matter, not where Lupin was concerned. His feelings were too… confusing. Too… difficult to handle. It was hard enough dealing with Harry's blatant selfishness, dealing with the painful loneliness that came with it, but sitting there in complete solitude was twice as hard, especially with Lupin's disgustingly gentle words and sentiments. Hermione wasn't sure what the strange feeling was creeping up inside of her, bubbling beneath the surface. It had been so easy opening herself up to Harry, because he had always been there for her. So easy with Ron, even if they had their differences. But Lupin… Lupin's feelings were palpable, overwhelming, just as Ron's had been. Lupin felt more than Hermione ever thought he could with his quiet mild-mannered attitude and—

_I want to save her._

She wished that she could forget. She wished that the strange, frightful images that continued to haunt her, even in her dreams, would whisk that overbearing thought away from her. There were only so many emotions she could deal with, so many situations, and already Lupin… it was possible that Lupin… Hermione's eyelids fluttered shut, and she pressed the heels of her palms to her oily eyes, an unwanted desperation beating against her in waves.

He would never forgive her now. Not for betraying him. Not for running away.

And while someone else might have been able to understand her desperation, Lupin wouldn't because he was so blinded by his misguided feelings, for his need for comfort that his mind was running in completely the other direction. But then maybe… maybe he'd be able to understand why she did. Maybe he would understand _her _need for comfort in logic and facts because there was no emotional comfort. No comfort in knowing that Harry was out somewhere, that he could be killed by Death Eaters or Voldemort at any moment, while Ron was in the hands of Voldemort, being tortured, beaten, _broken_.

And Remus had been broken time and time again, each time he was forced to transform. Each time the moon snared him in its vicious, bloodied grip, his body and mind would break time after time, so surely he had to know why she was so shattered. Surely he could understand why she was slowly breaking with each passing day? Because he had to, knowing the way his mind would disappear behind that hellish haze of hate and anger and blood lust and _Merlin_ how could he hate her when he knew that everything was slowly crumbling around her? How could he hate her when he knew that she was trying so desperately to grab hold of reality, because Ron's was _gone._ But she had to keep it, if just for him, because the memories had to be painful to live through day after day, even if they faded with time only to be replaced by new ones. And the voices—oh the voices, so dark and frightening, and the shadows, twisting so sinuously around the both of them… Hermione could still feel Ron's hard hands burning a path across her naked flesh as she sat there, staring blankly into space.

It was so hard, thinking of Lupin's desire to save her. So hard thinking that he could care about her enough _to _want to save her. But… but she thought she could understand. Because she wanted to save _Ron, too._

Her fingers glided over the front of the small journal, and she smiled bitterly, allowing her curls to fall into her face.

It was too hard. It was too hard dealing with that sudden understanding, too hard dealing with the bitter helplessness that came with it. She loved Ron—oh how she loved Ron—but Ron wasn't there and neither was Harry, and with both of them gone it was so easy to _forget_, and…

Too hard. It was just too damned _hard._

Quietly, Hermione stood and shrunk the book in her hand, slipping it into her pocket before moving towards the door to her chambers. She didn't know why she wanted to leave, but the room was suddenly too stifling with the weight of Lupin's words hanging in the air. She could feel them trickling down her spine, twining around her as she tried to remain free, because with knowledge came obligation, and Hermione didn't have the strength to feel obligated to Lupin. Didn't have to strength to get _attached._

Zabini was somewhere in the rather large house, but Hermione knew not to go anywhere but his study. She only hoped he was there. She needed his cold, distant attitude. Needed his abrasiveness. She didn't know how she would be able to handle it if she was stuck with solitude for the rest of the day. Her head started to ache just thinking about it, so she pushed it to the back of her mind and continued on her way through the labyrinth of corridors.

It didn't take long to find those large ornate doors which seemed to just stand out. A deeply amused smile fluttered across her face as she moved to knock on the door. It was just… the complete _opposite_ of Zabini. At school, he had always preferred to stay in the background, not saying a single word to harass the Gryffindors, but not bothering to stand up for them either. He was just as cool to them as they were to him, and it was surprising, knowing that both she and Harry were _relying _on him to keep them safe. Or… as safe as he could. Hermione wasn't an idiot. She knew that there were risks involved in spying, knew that if he had to, he would give them up in a second to save his own skin. But he was willing to help her, and that was all that Hermione really needed. Sure, his loyalties were split down the middle at the moment, but she could handle that. She could handle the possibility of him betraying her to Voldemort, could handle him stabbing her in the back. As long as the Order was able to foil some of the Dark Lord's plans, that was all that mattered. As long as Harry and Ron and Ginny were safe, that was all that Hermione cared about. Her life was forfeit, as far as she was concerned.

Even though she knew it wasn't. Even though the thought terrified her. Even though she knew Harry would hate her forever if he knew. And even though… even though Ron had—

Hermione raised her hand and knocked against the door, not wanting to think about it any longer. She knew that she couldn't keep letting these thoughts impede on her mind, knew that she couldn't continue to let them dig the horrifying trenches in her subconscious, knew that she couldn't let them continue to get in the way. It hurt too much to think about it, and ever since she was a little girl, she had always been one to let her emotions to rule some part of her life. To let herself abandon all reason just for that one, satisfying moment of relief. Oh yes, it had been so nice before, letting out all of her anger or sadness, giving into that carnal feeling. The release was something that she couldn't do without. But now that she was older, she couldn't afford it. Now that she was in the hands of a Death Eater, her feelings were forfeit. The only thing she could afford to do in that very moment was complete her mission.

So she would, and it wouldn't matter what she felt, because in the long run, her feelings held no power over what needed to be done. They couldn't. Hermione wouldn't let them.

She waited for a moment longer, staring at the large, dark wooden doors in front of her before she turned around and started to walk away.

What was it that Zabini had said before? Something about sending word beforehand?

Hermione sighed.

In the end, it didn't really matter.

She had so much more to work towards, anyways.

* * *

**8:37 a.m.**

By the time Blaise had managed to get back home, the sun had already risen and his body ached something fierce. It wasn't often that he'd come back from a mission feeling so completely drained, but then again, it wasn't very often that he was forced to do something so completely… _horrifying_, either. His knuckles ached from the feeling of that large needle weaving in and out of flesh, and he could still feel the small pricks of metal against his own tender skin and—

His head and eyes hurt, just thinking about it. He couldn't remember the last time he had done something so brutal. Couldn't remember the last time he had to witness the death of a classmate, either. Oh, it had been fun at first, seeing the shocked expression crossing Finnigan's face as soon as Weasley leveled his wand at the sandy-haired brunette. Had been so completely and utterly amusing, especially since Finnigan hadn't been expecting it. And oh, the words that had come out of Finnigan's mouth as soon as he realized just who Weasley had been playing for—but Weasley hadn't been there, hadn't been in his own mind for the entirety of the mission, and it had been so easy to manipulate him. Working with Weasley was relatively easy, especially since it was Weasley who got most of the work done. Malfoy didn't really say anything, just sat back and waited as Weasley tortured Finnigan over and over again. The screams were easy to digest, always had been, but then… then they got down to the crux of the mission, and it had been harder.

As soon as Malfoy had touched the razor to Finnigan's skin, Blaise knew it would only be a matter of time before they were both ill.

But Weasley had done it for him. And no matter how many times he felt his stomach clenching up tightly, no matter how many times he could feel the nausea rising up his throat, ready to spew from his mouth, it never happened. Because Weasley had done it for him.

Never in his life did Blaise think he'd be grateful for Weasley.

But he could already feel his stomach knotting up once again as he turned on the tap for his shower. Could already feel the strange, thin film of bile coating his tongue and he knew it was coming. Knew that, without a doubt, he would be dry-heaving on the floor because it was so much easier than trying to pretend it didn't bother him. Because it was so much easier than trying to pretend that he thrived on it.

And he did.

But he hated it.

He hated everything that came along with it, hated everything it entailed. He hated the blood on his hands that didn't belong to him, hated the fact that he wanted to wash them clean, but didn't know how. Oh, it was so easy going to Potter. So easy trying to repent, even though he knew there was no such thing. How could there be? After everything he had done, there would be no salvation for him towards the end, and fuck it if there was no such thing as repentance because at least he had _tried._

But it still didn't make Blaise feel any better.

The guilt was buried deep within him, begging to be set free, and yet he couldn't do it. He couldn't do it because he had forgotten what guilt was, and he only knew that shame came in his blood. Shame, because what kind of person could _ever_ do that to _anyone_ and only walk away with that annoyed grimace because even more blood had dried under his fingernails? He had seen the disdainful look that Malfoy had cast his way when it was said and done, had seen the way his face was twice as pale as usual, and why the _fuck_ did Weasley finish that ritual as though it were nothing?

Blaise wasn't stupid. He knew that Weasley had been in his own mind during the ritual, had seen the sanity in his eyes, and yet… Weasley still did it. The repulsion had been there on his face the entire time, but as soon as Weasley's body seemed to fade from existence, there was nothing left but a bitter resignation. It bothered Blaise to know that he could have felt that so strongly, even when Weasley was no longer near him, but he had. And, Blaise was certain that Malfoy had, too.

The trek to his room was long and slow, and Blaise wanted it to be over with. To be done with. He couldn't wait for that magnificent feeling of hot water washing all the filth away. And even though it would never be gone, even though Blaise could never erase what he had done, he could try. Because if he didn't try, then it would remain there, imprinted in his mind, unable to be forgotten. His hands throbbed when he thought of doing something like that again, something so insanely grotesque and brutal, something that no man should have ever been forced into doing. But he had been, and there was nothing he could do to change that. Nothing that he wanted to do because even though he was already doing so much to help those _enemies,_ he was bound to a lifetime of servitude, and that had been brought to the forefront of all his thoughts last night.

Blaise knew that something had been brewing, that the Dark Lord was working towards a goal, and although he didn't fully understand what that goal was, he wasn't ignorant enough to think that it wasn't there. He wished that he knew what it was that the Dark Lord was pushing towards, wish that he could find out that tiny little secret that not even the most prized Death Eaters could figure out. Sure, there were hints every now and then, but the Dark Lord kept his secrets locked away tightly—more tightly than Blaise had been able to. And Blaise was certain that his Master could see the disdain that Blaise held for everything around him, for the blood and the deaths creeping up around him, drowning him in sin.

The blood that had dried on his hand flaked off when he grabbed the handle to his door, and never before had Blaise thought he could feel such relief. The space was all his own, was so comforting, and even though there were nightmares lurking in the shadows, they rarely came out to torment him. Albeit, if he thought about it, he knew that they probably would now. There was too much pain and sickness that came with this last kill, too much blood and bile, and Blaise could distinctly remember the way his hands felt when he had to grab the slippery corded muscle that made up Finnigan's shoulders.

Blaise's throat constricted painfully at that, and he could practically feel his stomach churning at the thought of it. He had to keep it from his mind, otherwise, he would give into the inherent illness that had left his stomach in knots for the entire duration of night.

Blaise shed his clothes methodically and undid his blood crusted shoes, tossing them to the corner of the tiled bathroom floor. Dry blood flaked and streaked across the white floor, but Blaise paid it no mind, instead, choosing to focus on turning on his showers. There was one briefly hysterical moment when he almost turned to his mirror to assess the damage that had been done to him, but instead of giving into that traumatic experience, he ignored the mirror altogether. There was just so much exhaustion weighing on his mind, and he wanted it to all go away. He wanted to be trapped in the confines of sleep, avoiding nightmares, but not dreaming, either. If he dreamed then… he didn't know what he would see. Didn't want to see anything, if he were being honest with himself, and when the water finally heated to a reasonable temperature, his exhaustion seemed to wash away with all the filth that coated his body.

The hot water flowed down his back in small, wave like ripples, and he riveted his dark eyes to the bottom of the tub, watching in a strange sort of fascination as the blood and dirt swirled together to mix with the water. He watched as it flowed towards the drain, watched as the water continued to beat against his body until it ran clear, and it was only then that he reached for the washcloth and soap so he could scrub his skin.

He tried his best to think of things other than Weasley and Finnigan and faceless corpses, and the only thing that came into his mind was Granger. Granger, who was probably researching different ways to do… whatever. Or perhaps, she was taking her breakfast and worrying over Weasley and Potter at the same time. Or perhaps she was still sleeping. Blaise didn't know. For some reason, it was like a breath of fresh air, thinking about her, and he could feel the shame slowly dissipating as he remembered the way she put her trust in him so easily. Sure, it was ridiculously stupid, but in the same token, he felt an odd lingering pressure just below his sternum that felt quite… good.

Blaise knew that his betrayal was something that would be punishable by death, something that he was almost looking forward to. But he was still helping Granger, and he knew that would have some affect on the way he would be treated should his Master lose and… Blaise was so tired of fighting, so tired of death, and he just wanted out. He wanted to be somewhere away from it all, somewhere that he wouldn't be haunted by it, and the only place he could ever get that feeling of complete protection was with Potter and Granger, the two people who he thought he would never get along with. But somehow, he was managing to stay civil with Granger. Granger, who was quite amusing to be around even if she did wear her heart on her sleeve. Granger, whom he was protecting from not only her enemies, but her allies as well.

A strange almost victorious smile began to spread across Blaise's face, but it slipped away as he stood back under the spray of the water, watching with an unbearable feeling of detachment as the sudsy water ran down his body.

Oh, yes, he was protecting her from her allies. But at what cost?

Blaise didn't want to know.

The thought that protecting her was a mistake was only just beginning to surface in his mind, and that strange sick feeling rose in his chest once again. It was stupid of him to take her in, stupid of him to think that being seen in the presence of a Death Eater, and _willingly_, would endear Granger to her comrades. Especially if she had done something that she wasn't supposed to do. Blaise wasn't ignorant; he knew that she had been running, knew that she had been looking for a place to hideaway, and for the first time since he took her in, a question started to nag at him.

Why? Why was it that Granger was in a sudden need of a place to stay? To hide? It didn't make sense, especially since she was so close to Potter herself. Before, it had only been the deal that had made him take her without a second thought, and although he had explained to her the risks of staying at his home with him, he hadn't considering the risks on her side as well. Would Granger's allies come looking for her? Would they worry? And if and when Granger finally decided to stop hiding and go back to wherever it was that damnable Order hideout was, would they accept her back?

Potter's deal was stark and clear in his mind then, and that strange feeling in his stomach came back. Blaise knew that there was no way he could let her return empty handed. If Potter were to learn of that, he knew that their deal would be void. And his freedom… his freedom would be nonexistent. He could almost see that blazing hot fury in Potter's eyes if he learned about Granger's exile from the Order, could see his life ending in a spectacular shower of green sparks and…

Blaise swallowed back the revolting bile that started to coat his tongue, tossing his washcloth to the floor. The water was warm on his back once again, and he gazed down at his hands, frowning at the discoloration that seemed to swirl around the areas where he had pricked himself.

Yes, he would have to protect Granger, but how?

"Bloody fucking Granger," Blaise hissed as he turned around and slammed off the water.

He'd have to ask her when he next saw her. She was the only one with a suitable answer, after all.


	6. Chapter 5 part 2

**Title:** Speak Softly

**Chapter: **5, pt. 2

**Summary:** War is reason for insanity, and in the face of danger, insanity can be inescapable. A series of vignettes chronicling the lives of Harry, Ron, and Hermione during the final stretch of the war.

**Pairings: **Hermione/Ron, Hermione/Harry, Harry/Ginny

**Genre: **angst, drama, tragedy, horror, post-hogwarts, pre-HBP (although some elements of HBP will be added for just a touch of flavor)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**Note: **This is part 2 of chapter five.

**Warnings: **minor torture of the non-bloody variety.

**Edited 6/29/2010: **Minor spelling and formatting errors corrected.

* * *

_**February 20**__**th**__**, 2000, **__**7:30 p.m.**_

He was waiting for her.

That was the first thing that came to mind as Hermione placed the letter back down on her desk, confusion and uncertainty battling for dominance in her tired mind. It had been hours since she had been to Zabini's study, and even though she hadn't bothered to wait around or even think of him as the hours passed the fact still remained that when she had wanted him, he hadn't been available. And now he was summoning her—_summoning her_—like she was some pathetic little servant ready to obey his every whim. She thought to be angry, had wanted to be, but there was something that held the anger off, something that was brimming with confusion because why would he want to see her? He never gave any indication that he wanted anything to do with her while she was staying there, gave no indication that he even desired her presence.

Hermione bit her lip uncertainly as she stared at the parchment in front of her, small and square and cramped with Zabini's neat and meticulous handwriting. The message was loud and clear, but she had already started in on the pages of notes that Lupin had written. The diary had become too personal for her to read anymore, and although there were still plenty of entries she had yet to look at, she feared what was in them.

She could ignore him. Hermione knew that. It didn't take much, but the thought of Zabini angry at her irritated her in a way she didn't think it could. Hermione knew she could deal with his scathing comments and his insults, but the thought of him being angry—there was just too much at stake. If she angered Zabini, then it would only be so easy for him to deny her his protection while she was hiding from her allies.

And oh, how sick that made her feel, thinking of the different ways she had betrayed them. But it was something she had to do, something she _needed_ to do. She didn't know if she could handle being unaware of what was going on, and it was just like it had been with Lupin. Irritating and awfully inconvenient, because she was part of the solution, _too_, and—

It was just as well, that she decided to actually listen to Zabini, despite the rather rude way he had gone about getting her attention. She never knew what he might choose to divulge, and although there had been nothing in their agreement about trading secrets, Hermione knew that her protection would come with a cost. All that mattered was when the time came for Zabini to collect.

Sighing, Hermione stood and made her way back down the hall. The walk was familiar, quick. She couldn't feel any of the desperation that she had felt earlier—didn't want to. But it hardly mattered. It hardly mattered because she had a direction now, a path to go down. There weren't strange little riddles that made her head swim with frustration, or hours upon hours of confusion and forgetfulness. There wasn't worry constantly taking precedence over everything else, and although Hermione felt it niggling in her heart, she remembered the words Zabini had told her before, remembered how he had pushed her on the track she was supposed to be on, remembered how he had moved her away from Harry and made her think of Voldemort.

Because Voldemort was important. He was their goal. _Her_ goal.

Everything else was just a distraction.

The slight surge of pain at that thought made Hermione's heart ache, but she ignored it, lifting her hand and knocking on the study door roughly. The wood pained her knuckles, but just like everything else, Hermione pushed it aside. There was a brief moment of silence even as Hermione ran her fingers against her knuckles, Lupin's diary burning a hole in her pocket, before Zabini called out.

The doors opened without any warning, and Hermione immediately stepped in, her eyes adjusting to the brightly lit room.

Zabini was leaning against his desk, his wands held limply in his hands as he stared blankly into the empty fire place. His skin looked unnaturally washed out; his eyes, heavy. Although he was a far cry from completely sleep deprived, Zabini looked as though he hadn't had enough sleep, and if Hermione looked hard enough…

Zabini glanced in her direction then, his gaze sharpening at the mere sight of her. Hermione straightened, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her robes, clenching Lupin's diary tightly.

"You wanted to see me?" Hermione asked crisply. Zabini narrowed his eyes at her tone, but didn't comment. He set his ebony wand against the cluttered surface of his desk, and for a brief moment, Hermione wondered what it was, exactly, that the Zabini family did as a means for survival. But then Zabini was settling himself into the chair behind his desk, and almost impatiently, Hermione sat down opposite him, her fingers trailing almost uncomfortably against the corner of Lupin's diary before crossing her arms over her chest imperiously.

"Granger," Zabini said after a moment of tense silence. Hermione regarded him carefully, silently urging him to continue.

"Granger," Zabini repeated tiredly. He rubbed his forehead roughly, before turning back around to stare at her, his expression darkening slightly. "If I were to retract my protection, what would you do?"

Hermione stared at Zabini, alarmed. "Pardon?"

"I said," Zabini continued, his eyes narrowing in distaste at her alarm. "If I were to retract my protection, _what would you do?_"

"I—" Hermione faltered uncertainly, and Zabini glanced away from her, a razor sharp smile curling his lips.

"Because the way I see it, there is nothing you could do except hide. Hide from Death Eaters." He paused, and glanced at her sideways, the lights reflecting oddly against his obsidian eyes. "Hide from your Order."

The sudden realization fell upon Hermione like a tidal wave, and she sucked in a desperate breath, her brown eyes going glossy at the thought of her betrayal. She had been trying to keep it locked away in the back of her mind, hidden in her subconscious. She had wanted to forget the implications that came with being seen with a Death Eater. Wanted to forget the betrayal that came with learning that horrific name—_Asphillis Adelbrandt_—and the truth was, only so many people would recognize the implication of that name. But as soon as they realized—as soon as _Dumbledore_ realized—it was only a matter of time before they stopped trusting her completely… _not that they could anymore_, Hermione thought with bitter derision, _considering the circumstances… _but the look of betrayed disappointment on Albus Dumbledore's face was not something that she thought she could stomach.

Hermione wasn't nearly as close to him as Harry was, but there had been a bond formed between them, as small and tenuous as it was, and she held Dumbledore's trust because she held _Harry's._ And if Harry ever learned about what she did, about the lengths she was willing to go—

A strange feeling settled over Hermione then, leaving her blinking slowly. She could feel the epiphany working it's way through her mind, could feel it slowly unfurling and uncoiling as her thoughts continued to progress, because _Harry trusted Zabini_, and was it really as simple as that?

He trusted Zabini with the life of his fiancée (though Hermione tried her hardest not to think about _that_, _too_), with the life of the very person who had stuck with him throughout over half of his life and—_that had to mean something, didn't it?_

It hardly mattered if Dumbledore knew that Harry's trust in Zabini was the reason Hermione contemplated staying with him in the first place. The thought of what Harry had promised Zabini lodged itself in the trenches of her mind, but Hermione disregarded it. Yes, Harry trusted Zabini, but at what cost? It wouldn't matter, not in the long run, especially since no one knew.

But Harry had. Or, at least, if Harry hadn't, he had certainly helped her to discover the cost. An odd feeling coiled up in the pit of her stomach, and she was suddenly looking at Zabini, hard and long and thoughtful, even as her lips thinned in displeasure at her sudden realization.

"Zabini," she started sternly, only to pause and lick her lips uncertainly. Zabini turned back towards her, his dark eyebrow arched in a silent question. Hermione hefted a sigh and squared her shoulders before looking back at him, all thoughts of betrayal and despair suddenly absent from her mind.

"What, Granger?" Zabini asked when she failed to continue.

"I—" her brows furrowed then, and she glanced towards the empty fire place, then back to him. "What do you know about Asphillis Adelbrandt?"

Zabini's face went blank.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the two of them, and Zabini watched her listlessly, his expression closed and guarded. Hermione thought she could hear the cogs turning in his head, knew he was wondering what she was trying to get at, why she had thought to ask, and—almost as soon as it had started, she could see the sudden realization burning in the obsidian depths, and the anger that appeared was almost palpable. It froze Hermione to the core and her mouth dried at the sudden terror that coursed through her, because—

"Fucking _Potter,_" Zabini spat, surging to his feet and shoving everything from his desk. "Stupid _fucking_ _POTTER!"_

Glass shattered against the hardwood flooring, and Hermione jumped out of her seat and scuttled backwards, her fingers curled tightly around her wand. Zabini's chair was the next to fall over, and it hit the ground with a resounding _crash_ that left Hermione jerking her arm upwards and pointing her wand straight at Zabini's heart. He whirled around to face her, his expression twisted into something horrible and ugly and—

_Terrified._

Hermione froze.

"What else did he give you?" Zabini asked darkly, his voice slippery and dangerous.

"He didn't—"

"_What else did he fucking give you?"_ Zabini spat as he prowled closer, his eyes darting to her wand and back up again. Her hand shook slightly, but then she steadied it, and Zabini halted, his lips twisting into a disgusted sneer. His body shook with the urge to rush her; it shook from anger and hate and so many other things that Hermione couldn't identify, but she knew that if she didn't say something quick, that if she didn't attempt to diffuse the situation everything was going to horribly and inexplicably _wrong._

"_Nothing_!" Hermione said shrilly, shaking her head rapidly. "He didn't give me anything, just the name, that's all!"

Zabini let out a sharp bark of derisive laughter, and the sound chilled Hermione to bone.

"Nothing," Zabini repeated, his voice soft and dangerous. "Are you certain? Are you absolutely _certain_ that he gave you nothing?" He stopped directly in front of her, the tip of her wand pressing neatly against his heart. His hands reached up and curled around Hermione's. She winced at the sudden bruising pressure, but his gaze was heavy—_violent_—and she knew she was trying to draw away from him, away from the sudden pain, but her back was already against the door, and she could taste the fear on her tongue. Could taste it as she tried to think of anything to diffuse the situation, but _couldn't_ because—

_Harry betrayed Zabini._

The thought was almost laughable, but it was pushed away as Zabini twisted her arm painfully, causing her fingers to go slack and her wand to clatter to the floor.

"Stop it," Hermione hissed, clawing at his hands. "_Stop it!"_

"You filthy lying _mudblood,_" Zabini spat harshly, absently swatting her hand away.

"I'm not lying!" Hermione shrieked as Zabini flipped her around and twisted her arm behind her back, slamming her face into the door. Hermione let out a groan of pain as he pulled her arm higher, and she could feel the pressure increasing on her arm, could feel the pain shooting up and down her nerves and—

_Harry betrayed Zabini._

"Oh?" Zabini asked, darkly amused. "Because I seem to recall at least four pages of Adelbrandt's runic equation simply… _vanishing_. On the same day that Potter discovered Adelbrandt's history, no less. So I won't ask again. _What else did he give you?"_

"Just the equations," Hermione managed through gritted teeth. "And the name."

"Really," Zabini drawled, his voice dangerously soft. "Is that all?"

"Yes," Hermione breathed shakily, even as Zabini twisted her arm higher. "Yes, that's all, so _please_—"

Zabini released her instantly, and Hermione fell to the floor, gasping and shaking. She cradled her arm to her body and held it there, doing her best to ignore the sharp shock of bruises that speckled up her arm. She trembled slightly, watching as Zabini kicked her wand towards her and moved towards the pile of papers and broken glass that littered his floor. He pushed them around absently, tossing them back onto his desk, heedless of the shards of glass that skinned the sides his fingers and crunched under his boots.

He lifted his ebony wand and pointed it at the mess on the floor. The parchment, books, inkwells, and quills all rearranged themselves back on his desk, messy and cluttered, just like before. The tea set that had shattered against the floor was repaired a moment later and set aside on a floating silver tray that had materialized out of nowhere.

Hermione watched in horrified fascination as Zabini twirled his wand between his fingers, his eyes lingering on the empty fire place before turning back around towards her.

The anger that had been present before had all but faded, but Hermione could see the violent amusement fluttering about in Zabini's expression. The terror that she had felt only moments before reappeared and Hermione inhaled deeply. She hoped that whatever punishment he tried to bestow on her would be quick and almost painless. She didn't think she could handle the slowly increasing pain that he had given to her arm, and although Hermione wanted nothing more than the pick up her wand and protect herself, the pain wracked her body, making it so hard to move, and—

"Tit for tat," Zabini replied suddenly, causing Hermione's thoughts to come to a screeching halt. "The parameters of my agreement with Potter dictated that we would trade off favors, though if we betrayed one another, we were well within our rights to seek retribution." He paused then and allowed the sleek wand to trail over his knuckles. His eyes bore into Hermione's unrelentingly, and she hid her fear behind a mask of quiet calm.

"Potter has given you information that went beyond the limits of our agreement," Zabini continued to explain, and the methodical way in which he went about doing so left Hermione's heart beating rapidly in fear. "And as a result I was forced to deal with the… repercussions… of that betrayal."

The implication that Zabini was tortured was not lost on Hermione, and her eyes fluttered shut in shame.

Tit for tat, he had said.

Hermione's heart clenched.

"So," Zabini continued, and his voice has softened into something resembling quiet venom. "Unless you can match what has been given to you, Granger, I'm afraid I will be unable to, ah," his lips curled into a vicious smile, "_protect_ you any longer."

Cold horror arced through Hermione then, and she could only stare at Zabini numbly.

"No?" Zabini asked quietly, and he stopped trailing his wand over his knuckles to stare at her absently. "Tch. Pity."

He pointed his wand at her.

"_Crucio._"

The scream ripped through her throat almost immediately, and she jerked back, her head slamming painfully into the door behind her. She should have felt it, known she should have, but all of her nerve endings were on fire, and all she could think of was _painpainpain_. Her screams punctuated the horrific silence, even as the spell left trails of fire in her muscles and bones and ligaments and _everything._

Tears were already streaming down her face, even as her body jerked forward awkwardly then pitched sideways, causing her head to slam into the hardwood floor. But she didn't feel that either, and her toes curled and her nails scraped against the floor, chipping and breaking and—

"_Please!"_ she screamed incoherently as her body twisted around again. "_Stop, please, stop! PLEASE!"_

Zabini stopped.

Hermione twitched as she let out deep gasping breaths, and tears blurred her vision. She sobbed brokenly as she lay on the floor, her muscles twitching at the after-effects of the pain that left her nerves firing constantly, over and over and _over_ again, and—

She rolled onto her back, only to wince as something dug painfully into her side.

Cold realization gripped her then, because even through the pain, she knew what she would have to do, and the betrayal would only run deeper then, would only cause everyone around her to hate her even _more_, and—Dumbledore would never trust her after this. Not again. Not after this.

"Five minutes under the Cruciatus Curse was my punishment," Zabini explained suddenly. "Intermittently, granted, because an insane Death Eater hardly holds any value to the Dark Lord, but I managed to survive."

Hermione turned her head and stared at him through tear clouded eyes.

"Let's see if you can manage the other four minutes and fifty seconds, yes?"

His lips curled into that dangerous smile once more, and Hermione suddenly realized _why_ Zabini was a Death Eater.

"_Cru—_"

"Wait!" Hermione interrupted raspy, and Zabini jerked at the sudden plea. He stared at her long and hard, but slowly lowered his wand, a curious and out of place smile marring his handsome features. "I—"

Hermione sobbed brokenly once again as her breath caught in her throat. Slowly, she pushed herself up into a sitting position and leaned against the door. The dull throb on the back of her head suddenly increased tenfold, and she winced at the burning pain that made her muscles spasm and her nerves fire.

"Well Granger?"

She plunged her hand into her robes almost as soon as Zabini started to level his wand at her, and before she even realized she had done it, Lupin's journal was sailing across the room. It landed haphazardly at Zabini's feet, pages splayed and bent, and Zabini eyed it curiously before kneeling down to pick it up.

He tucked his wand into the crook of his elbow as he sat cross-legged on the floor and opened the book—his eyes immediately arched in surprised shock at the name that was written on the inside of the journal.

"I've never been so surprised," Zabini started as he continued to skim through the first couple of pages of the journal, "at the lengths a Gryffindor would go to for self-preservation."

The barb stung, and Hermione just closed her eyes doing her best to hold back that sickness that was welling in her stomach. She didn't need Zabini rubbing it in her face. She knew what she had done was wrong and weak-willed, and she regretted it, even as Zabini glanced through the journal uninterestedly. He paused then, and his eyes lifted to hers. They stared at each other silently for a long moment, the guilt and shame and absolute _disgust_ with herself mounting as the seconds passed, but then Zabini was smiling, all wicked and horrible and razor sharp.

He closed the journal with a snap and lobbed it back at her. He stood fluidly then; ignoring the fact that Hermione couldn't even be bothered to look at him, ignoring the fact as she stared at the bent and damaged journal. She knew he had removed his wand from the crook of his elbow, knew that he was watching her closely, and all Hermione could do was hate herself because how many more times was she going to betray everyone before she realized?

The tears started anew, and Hermione crawled forward. Her fingers closed around the diary and she smoothed out the pages before closing the book and stuffing it back into her pocket. She picked up her wand next, though she knew she couldn't use it.

Tit for tat, Zabini had said, and Hermione had yet to repay the favor.

"Werewolves are meaningless to me, Granger," Zabini said at length, pushing the knife even farther. Hermione narrowed her gaze at him, but he just smiled even more violently, allowing her to get shakily to her feet. "Werewolves are Malfoy's and Greyback's area of expertise." He paused and smiled again. "If you recall, I deal in Inferi, only."

"Four minutes and fifty seconds," Hermione stated shakily, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin defiantly.

Zabini sneered. "Think you can survive it?"

"Harry would."

And that was all he needed really.

"_Crucio._"

Zabini kept time.

Hermione screamed.

* * *

_**8:34 p.m.**_

The room was full to capacity with Order members, and Tonks leaned back in her chair as Remus shifted restlessly beside her, his eyes darting all over the room as he took in everyone around him. Moody sat directly across from him, and his magic eye was spinning nearly as quickly as Lupin's eyes darted around the room. Tonks had to resist the urge to sigh at the paranoia, but she understood where it came from—understood it almost as soon as she had given her report about just _who_ exactly, Hermione Granger had disappeared with, because if Peter Pettigrew was able to turn traitor against his best friends, it made perfect sense that Hermione Granger would, too.

Though in this case, it had more to do with Hermione, Ron, _and_ Ginny disappearing and being Marked (they weren't completely sure in Hermione's case, but premature speculation had been made) and that was the true reason behind the Order meeting in the first place.

Tonks surveyed the room around her slowly before turning her gaze onto the weary werewolf beside her, wishing that there was something she could say to comfort him. Despite all her goodhearted humor and attempts to ease the despair he was feeling, Tonks had failed. She had failed almost as spectacularly as everyone else had failed to keep Harry from disappearing, to keep Ron and Ginny from being kidnapped, to keep Hermione from drowning in her own personal sorrow—even to Tonks, two lovers was just two heartbreaks too much, though she would have done something more than ally herself to a Death Eater in order to find her lost loves—and it had all come crashing down around them.

Remus had been beside himself with worry and anger at the revelation that Hermione had betrayed them; they all had been. Molly had quivered with rage, though she could see the sorrow which gripped her heart as well—Hermione may have hurt Molly's youngest son, but the muggleborn witch was still considered _family_, and that just seemed to hurt Molly all the more. Kingsley had taken it with about as much patience and thinly veiled contempt as any Auror could take it and Tonks…

She had joked. She had joked and made comments about spiriting herself away with random men of darkness, because what could she say? As much as the anger clawed at her, as much as the betrayal stung her, contempt was not something she could feel for Hermione. She knew what it was like to have the one she loved right within her grasp, only to have them fade away like smoke. She knew it just as Hermione knew it, because although Hermione had to juggle two men, Tonks had to only juggle one, and Remus held darkness in himself just as well as Hermione held sorrow.

She couldn't hate Hermione, because _Remus_ couldn't, and he wanted to save her. Tonks knew this just as well as she knew that Hermione's heart was torn between duty and love, but in the end, just like everyone else, she would choose duty.

And she had.

So Tonks couldn't hate her.

Even if Remus did love Hermione more than he loved her.

But then again, it hardly had anything to do with love and more with duty, because through his duty to Harry had Remus even realized how much Hermione could have possibly meant to him; she was someone who had become a constant in his life, and although it hurt Tonks to realize that Remus would never see her, a vindictive part of her was glad because Hermione would never see Remus _either._

Guilt coursed through Tonks then, but she pushed it away and touched Remus' arm gently.

He jerked slightly, then turn a tired gaze towards her. His amber eyes looked like liquid in the firelight, and Tonks felt her heart swell with warmth and love at the sight of it.

"Relax, wolf-man," she murmured gently, and Remus' lips curved into a gently amused smile. "There's no point in seeking out anymore potential traitors. All the ones that even matter aren't even here anymore."

Snape swooped into the room then, and Tonks' face split into a vicious grin.

"Well," she conceded. "_Almost_ all of them. But at least we know we can hex Snape horribly without fear of retribution." Remus shook his head in quiet amusement.

"I doubt Harry would appreciate us cursing the man who gives us inside information on Voldemort's plans," Remus replied mildly. Tonks watched him carefully for a long moment before sighing gustily.

"Why wouldn't he?" Tonks asked petulantly. "I mean, we do have three other Death Eater spies working for us, you realize." Tonks paused, but Lupin's expression had yet to darken. "Well, two, at any rate."

"Hmmm," Lupin replied absently, pushing his graying hair out of his face. "So you don't think—"

"Stuff like that is best left for the meeting," Tonks replied quickly. "Though to be honest… I really don't. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I think, and she did the only thing that could give her a way out."

They both fell silent then, even as Molly ushered in Fred and George.

"Besides," Tonks continued quietly. "We already knew that something was going to happen. We realized it six days ago, once she brought you that riddle. Not to mention, it was hinted at almost a month ago, once she voiced her concerns regarding Zabini."

Remus remained silent for a long moment.

"Tonks," he said with a sigh, only to be interrupted as Dumbledore called for silence. All of the chattering witches and wizards fell quiet and gazed at Dumbledore expectantly, waiting for what he had to say.

"I'm glad that you all could make it," Dumbledore said genially. "A matter of utmost importance has come to my attention, and I feel that I must share it with you all so that we may uncover the best course of action." Dumbledore paused, and his blue eyes shifted towards Snape before settling on Remus. "Remus, if you would."

Remus sighed, but stood.

"Six days ago, we received a tip-off concerning some rather alarming plans of the Dark Lord. The nature of these plans can not be disclosed, however, we feel as though, if they were to be interrupted, it would be detrimental to the Dark Lords goals." Lupin's expression shifted then, and Tonks leaned forward, allowing her fingers to brush against the side of side of his leg. If Remus felt it, he didn't show it, but his face went purposefully blank as he continued to tell the story. "Two days ago, however, our valuable research material concerning these plans was stolen."

Remus paused once more and glanced in Dumbledore's direction. Dumbledore's expression was grave, but revealed nothing else, and Tonks thought Remus might have been glad for it. She could only imagine the pity that Remus might receive from others had they known the extent of Remus' feelings concerning Hermione Granger. Sure, they weren't anything resembling the love that Tonks felt for him, but it was close enough, and that was all that mattered anyways. To know that he had been betrayed by the one person who could remind him of the fact that he was human… who could give him some sense of normalcy… Tonks heart ached for Remus, and without realizing it, her fingers curled into the fabric of his pants, right behind the knee.

Remus frowned at Snape.

"Where was this information stolen from?" Fred asked suddenly, and Remus twitched at the sight of him. Or perhaps it was the thought of what he had to reveal, Tonks thought, because his blank expression had shifted slightly, and it looked darker. More… violent.

"Grimmauld Place."

The occupants of the room all sucked in surprised breaths at the implication of his words, and Snape sneered at them all with thinly veiled disgust. Dumbledore's expression hadn't shifted once, but the graveness was almost undermined by the regret, and Tonks found she didn't like it.

"But that can't be," Neville muttered quietly. "If it was stolen from here then that would mean—"

"It would mean that we have a spy in our midst," Moody said darkly, and Tonks resisted the urge to cackle at his melodramatic, yet effective, wording.

Almost all the graduated students that had previously been in Gryffindor turned to eye Snape instantly, and Tonks had to resist the urge to cackle at that, too. Snape sneered at their open mistrust disdainfully, and said in his silkiest, oiliest voice, "It's not me, you imbeciles."

Tonks shoulders shook.

"Yeah, well if it's not you then who is it?" George asked heatedly. "You _are _the only known traitor in this room, you realize."

"Or perhaps, if you were so inclined to use that empty head of yours _Weasley_, you would realize that the traitor is _not._ _in_. _this_. _room_," Snape hissed angrily, and Tonks actually let out a snort that caused everyone to stare at her in surprise.

"Sorry," she replied insincerely.

"_Granger!_" Moody barked suddenly, causing everyone to jump and stare at him in shock. "Where the bloody hell is Granger?"

The explosion was inevitable.

"No!" Neville shouted in horrified shock as Fred and George stilled. Bill and Charlie looked slightly ill, and Fleur arched an eyebrow as she gazed around the room. Everyone else started speaking rapidly, trying to be heard over one another.

Tonks felt somewhat sorry for Hermione, even as Lupin's face drained of color and he sat heavily back into his chair.

It was tiresome, really, when Tonks thought about it, because even without saying it, Remus finally had to admit to himself that someone he cared for _had_ betrayed him, and what's worse was that she had betrayed _Harry_, _too._

And it really was like Pettigrew all over again, though Tonks hadn't really been subjected _that_ betrayal, but two—_two—_from the people Remus had loved and cherished more than anyone else in the world…

Tonks touched Remus' elbow once again, and he gazed at her blankly, the bitter truth burning paths of fire across his mind.

"Sorry," she murmured once more, this time with more conviction and honesty than before. Lupin's lips turned into a bitter smile, but it was still a smile, and Tonks knew that it was better than nothing.

They both remained silent, along with Kingsley and Mrs. Weasley, as everyone around them continued to chatter. Dumbledore, it seemed, was quite interested in all of the garbled mess that people had to say, all the shocked exclamations and bitter denial. In her opinion, Tonks thought that he was just fishing, trying to figure out the extent of Hermione's reach before he made a possibly detrimental decision concerning her place in the Order. It was Hermione that had gotten them that lead after all, that had pushed them in the right direction—and for one briefly ludicrous moment, Tonks could help but wonder if it was the _Death Eater_ that was the traitor instead of Hermione, because Hermione was a mudblood after all, and there was no such thing as _muggleborns_ existing inside Voldemort's Death Eaters.

But then again, Snape's father was a muggle, as was Voldemort's so perhaps exceptions were made for those who truly deserved them, and out of everything, Hermione was closest to Harry. Hermione was the one that could flush Harry out and into danger—though the thought that Harry had already fallen into that trap was not something Tonks wanted to think about, because _poor_ Hermione, and it had to hurt to be cast aside.

Tonks' lips curved into a sad smile at that and couldn't help but glance at Remus out of the corner of her eye, hating the need to laugh at the irony.

"Now, if you would please quiet down," Dumbledore started, and everyone jerked at the sudden severity in his voice. He waited until everyone had their attention on him before continuing. "I understand that this is a shock to you all, but what's even more shocking is the fact that not only did Ms. Granger steal this information—some of which concerned Remus' progress with the wolf packs existing within the Sanctuary—but after doing so, she made direct contact with a Death Eater."

Many people straightened at that revelation, unsure of how to respond.

"Who is it?" Bill implored, gazing at Dumbledore with open curiosity. "The Death Eater, I mean."

"Ah. That, my boy, is the most curious part." Dumbledore paused and shifted around in his robes before he pulled out a small metal tin. He opened it, popped a lemon drop in his mouth and settled back in his chair, looking for all the world like he was comfortable. "For, you see, if my memory serves me correctly, it is the same person Ms. Granger previously believed to be a spy."

Snape's expression flickered slightly, but his displeased scowl didn't slip. Fred and George both sucked in sharp breaths.

"Who?" Neville asked curiously, and Dumbledore aimed a cursory smile in his direction.

"Blaise Zabini."

"_Zabini_?" Neville asked incredulously, and Dumbledore nodded his head.

"Indeed. Ms. Granger brought it to our attention that it is possible Mr. Zabini and Mr. Potter were working together in order to stage Mr. Potter's abduction. She made this assumption based off of something the both of them said, but we believed the notion of Mr. Zabini being a Death Eater turned spy to be unfounded." Dumbledore paused to roll the lemon drop around in his mouth. "However, due to the recent events, we must now realize that Ms. Granger has been in contact with Mr. Zabini ever since the incident and has, in fact, garnered information off of him. This information she supplied to Remus, and Remus, in turn, supplied it to me.

"I have to admit, I was rather curious about the source of her information, but all she was willing to divulge was that he was Death Eater. Because of this, Severus has been making delicate inquiries to all of the Death Eaters, but Mr. Zabini must be incredibly apt at picking up signs of deceit—either that, or Ms. Granger has compromised the Order far more than we thought possible—for Severus was not able to uncover the identity of the Death Eater that had been feeding Ms. Granger information."

Snape's lips curled as Dumbledore announced his failings as though they were nothing, and Tonks had to resist the urge to snort in amusement. The situation was anything but amusing, yet Snape was always so easy to offend, and the thought of offending Snape ranked high on her list of things to do. It would take her mind off of Remus' sudden bout of bitter resentment towards the scholastic, bushy-haired girl at any rate, and no matter how many words Tonks attempted to speak, it wouldn't make a difference. He would be comforted only momentarily, but Hermione's comfort was something that lasted a thousand-fold and—

She betrayed him.

But her lovers had betrayed her first.

"Hermione's no traitor," Fred said suddenly, cutting through the tense silence that permeated the room. Dumbledore gazed at him imploringly, and Fred heaved a sigh before glancing at his brother in slight uncertainty.

"What I mean to say is, if Hermione's turned traitor then the only reason for her doing so would be because of her misplaced duty—"

"And completely unneeded sense of self-sacrifice," George interrupted darkly.

"Three guesses as to where she got that bad habit from," Tonks muttered good-naturedly.

"—_and,_" Fred continued, shooting Tonks a dissatisfied look, "the irrepressible need to save our brother."

"Because they're in love, and all that," Tonks pointed out, grinning horridly.

Remus frowned.

"Yeah, something like that," George agreed.

Silence met their shared answer.

"You mean to tell me," Snape began darkly, "that Granger purposely compromised her position in the Order for some misplaced sense of… of _love?_" He let out a bitter laugh then and shook his head in disgust. "Forgive me, Weasleys, if I find your explanation to be entirely lacking in common sense, though it is to be expected from you."

"Well, maybe not entirely," George conceded, shrugging slightly. "There is the information factor to take into consideration."

"But the fact remains that if Hermione is in league with Death Eaters, she now has access to both Ron _and_ Ginny, and, if possible, _Harry_." Fred paused, frowning. "And although Harry may have dumped Hermione by going after our sister, the fact remains that they both still love each other—Harry just happens to love Ginny more, just like Hermione loves Ron more."

"Besides," George continued, folding his arms over his chest. "Ron and Ginny are 'blood-traitors', so there has to be a reason why—"

"Inferior, but whole," Remus said quite suddenly, his firm voice cutting across George's speech. "Muggleborns aren't the only ones used as sacrifices."

Dumbledore looked at Lupin sharply, but Tonks cleared her throat immediately garnering everyone's attention.

"Well, this is all good and dandy, but I think that we have three options. One, we let Severus do his spy thing and find out where Blaise Zabini is keeping Hermione and bring her back—though she left willingly, so I'm not entirely sure just how willing she'll be to get dragged back to Headquarters. Two, we have someone call in an anonymous tip and hope that Kingsley and I get assigned the raid that will allow us to search all of Zabini's properties."

"And three?" Moody asked darkly, his voice heavy with distaste.

Tonks shrugged absently. "We wait for her to come back."

An explosion of angry voices met this laid back statement, but Tonks just smiled good-naturedly. Remus touched her elbow gently, and Tonks all but beamed at the comforting contact. Though, if she had to guess, she would assume that Remus was the one seeking comfort, because all options led to undesirable outcomes with the exception of the last. But the chance of Hermione coming back was slim indeed, and as much as Tonks wanted to whisk Hermione off to safety, protocol would have Hermione carted off to the Ministry for questioning. And if Snape came across her, it would be expected of him to play the part of faithful Death Eater, because regardless of whether Zabini was traitor or not, Snape's secret was something that no one could know.

And then, there was the small, minuscule problem of the stolen research to contend with.

Either way, Hermione couldn't be accepted back so easily, not if she came back empty-handed, and—

Tonks stilled suddenly and gazed over at Remus.

"Muggleborns aren't the only ones used as sacrifices?" she inquired quietly as the shouting and disagreements continued to wage on around her.

Remus' lips quirked in quiet understanding, and he leaned towards her, his hair falling into his eyes. His lips brushed teasingly against her ear, though Tonks knew that there was nothing remotely intimate in the action.

"Hermione nearly died," Remus explained, and Tonks frowned.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Remus smiled and his expression was mild as he turned back to the chaos that the order meeting had dissolved into. His gaze shifted towards the Weasleys, and they all shared strangely heavy looks—looks which made Tonks feel decidedly left out, but worried.

Worried, because nothing good could from an ambiguous Lupin and Tonks had the feeling that whatever was going through his head was meant for Dumbledore and Dumbledore alone.

But the Weasleys knew.

And they were blood traitors.

A small feeling of dread started to coil tightly in the pit of Tonks' stomach, and she shifted restlessly, her gaze drifting over towards Kingsley, who was seated next to Neville. Kingsley watched her placidly and shrugged his strong, broad shoulders absently before turning his attention towards the current argument.

She had some knowledge of the research that Remus had been doing, but in the end, not enough information had been given to her to form some sort of first hand knowledge of the subject. But she knew the Weasleys had something to do with it, Ron and Ginny specifically, though she didn't know the reason. But Lupin, Dumbledore, and the Weasley family _did, _and it left Tonks feeling uneasy.

Tonks continued to frown.

Just what in Merlin's name did Voldemort want with _blood traitors_?

* * *

_**7:45 p.m.**_

The pain erupted at the most inopportune moment, and Harry had only a second to throw himself into the underbrush and hide before his body started trembling from the phantom agony. His jaw was clenched tight and his body went as rigid as possible—his palms went sweaty and slick, and it was only as his wand clattered wetly to the ground beside him that he realized where the pain was coming from.

Surprise slipped past his lips in the form of a gasp, and he clawed at the chain around his neck, at the spot where heat was burning scars onto his chest, and—_she wasn't supposed to have it, not now, not anymore—_flung the offending article away from him. His green eyes were wide as the simple gold band glowed red, alerting him to her pain, to the fact that his fiancée—_Hermione, _Harry thought desperately—was hurting. Being tortured. _Broken._

It had been in a startling moment of inspiration when Harry had asked Zabini to help him link the two engagement bands together; after Hermione had been nearly killed when the building collapsed on her, he wanted to make sure that she was safe, that she wasn't hurt, and although he trusted Zabini, there was only so many ways he could trust him with Hermione. Hermione had been with him since the beginning, had stuck by him, even when he hadn't wanted her to… repeatedly put her life on the line for him… and he knew he loved her, loved her in ways that he couldn't even begin to describe. But he had to save Ginny… just _had_ to… and he knew Hermione would understand.

It had been months since he last saw her. Months and still… _still_ Hermione clung to their bond, still carried it with her, and although Harry had hidden the ring from sight, it was his only sense of security. He didn't think it would have applied to Hermione as well.

But if he was feeling her pain so acutely, then it had to mean that the engagement band hadn't even left her _finger—_guilt welled within Harry then, even as phantom pain tapered off only to start again moments later. Sickness came next, because it was then that he knew for certain—_she's being tortured, _Harry thought frantically, sickeningly—but there was nothing he would do about it, not now, not when he was trying to hide all indication of his existence from the outside world. He was supposed to be missing, and if he Apparated… it would only take the Ministry a moment to track him down, and by then Ministry officials, Death Eaters, and Order Members alike would be on his trail, hunting him down, compromising his mission…

Indecision coiled through Harry then, even as the engagement band continued to burn red over and over and _over_ again. He longed to go to Hermione, longed with such a passion that it frightened him, because it was only supposed to be about _Ginny_, but now that Hermione was in pain, now that he knew she still held on…

The pain dispersed, the glow faded, and Harry gingerly picked up his wand, tucking it into his holster quietly. Twigs snapped under his weight and snagged against his clothing, but Harry ignored it, his fingers dancing along the cool band of gold.

Yes, he longed for her. Knew that he would the moment he had left. But Ginny had been important then. Still was, even though he knew Hermione was in pain, even though he knew that she needed him. Harry swallowed thickly as the band heated up once more, and he placed his hand over it, shielding the glow from the outside world. Phantom pain danced up his limbs, snaked around his insides, and Harry clenched his eyes shut tightly, his teeth grinding painfully around each other.

"Hermione_,_" he murmured quietly. Desperately. He wished he was there, keeping her safe, protecting her from the things that Zabini had sworn to protect her from… but not to the extent of his role as a spy, because Harry needed Zabini, just as much as Dumbledore needed Snape.

But Zabini had failed.

And Hermione needed him.

But Ginny needed him _too_, and Harry didn't know what to do.

"Damn it," he cursed softly, the trembles stilling as the pain dispersed. "_Damn it!_"

"What the hell was that?"

Harry went still.

"What was what?"

Harry nearly cursed again at his foolishness—there was a reason why he had hidden, a reason why he was crouching under a cluster of bushes... and he had forgotten.

The band went hot in his fist, but Harry just gripped it tighter, even as the Death Eaters he was tracking moved closer to his hiding place.

It had been stupid keeping the band on him, Harry thought in bitter retrospect. He knew he should have done what he thought Hermione would have—thrown the band away, but then again, he had taken for granted that Death Eaters weren't infallible. Of course there had to be something that would cause Zabini to _not_ protect Hermione, and the chances of him being able to do so publicly was ridiculous. He had picked a rather well-known Death Eater after all, and although it had been accidental, the repercussions of such actions were unavoidable.

Harry nearly cursed again.

The Death Eaters wandered even closer to his hiding place, and Harry slipped out his wand, hating the fact that he was so careless.

"That noise," the first Death Eater explained at last, and his partner snorted in disbelief.

"The only sound I hear is you opening that big stupid mouth of yours," the second Death Eater pointed out scornfully, and from his vantage point, Harry saw the first one shake his head once again.

"No, Travers, _listen_." The one named Travers stilled, and Harry assumed he was glaring at his partner. "I heard… well… maybe I'm being paranoid, but before we were even put on this mission… remember what the Dark Lord said? We're being tracked. And what if… well… what if whoever's tracking us finally managed to find us? There's a lot at stake you know, what with everything the Dark Lord's trying to accomplish, and—"

"So it makes complete sense to stand about in a forest spouting the Dark Lords plans, doesn't it, you complete idiot!" Travers snapped acidly. "And if we were being tracked, don't you think we would have been notified of magic being used?"

The first Death Eater—who Harry assumed was younger than Travers—glanced around rapidly before shrugging.

"They could be tracking us the muggle way."

A sharp smack rang out in the almost-silence of the forest, and Harry had to suppress the inclination to groan as another bout of shakes and phantom pain wracked his body.

"_Muggle,_" Travers spat. "Don't you _dare_ talk about that filth around me again, do you understand?"

The younger Death Eater nodded frantically.

"Good, now let's go."

The two Death Eaters started to move away, and Harry remained still, waiting until all signs of life disappeared from the thicket of trees. He waited moments more, because the pain was still causing his body to shake, and only when the next recession came did he roll out of his hiding place and sling the chain back around his neck, tucking the band under the collar of his shirt.

It was far easier to move than he thought it would be, and though his body shook and caught on branches and bushes alike, he was still able to follow the trail that the Death Eaters had laid out for him. Even so, it was disturbing to know that the Dark Lord knew that they were being tracked, and it was far more disturbing to realize that Voldemort knew it was Harry but hadn't said a thing to his followers. There was no way word of Harry's disappearance, which occurred simultaneously with the attack on Diagon Alley, hadn't gotten out, and even if it hadn't, Harry wasn't stupid enough to think that Voldemort wouldn't be able to cotton onto that fact.

Wincing once more at the precarious situation that Harry had inadvertently put Zabini in, he trudged on, wishing he had been smart enough to bring his invisibility cloak along with him.

But he hadn't, and even as the Death Eaters led him closer to Ginny, his mind was filled with thoughts of Hermione.

* * *

_**8:57 p.m.**_

Hermione trembled as Zabini's hands massaged her pain-ridden muscles. They were rough and violent, but she accepted them anyways, because they took away from the burning agony that caused her muscles to spasm and her nerves to fire rapidly. It had taken over an hour for Zabini to suitably seek his retribution, and at the end of it, Hermione stunk of vomit, tears, and urine.

It was humiliating having to deal with it, but Zabini had offered to clean her up, to allow her to heal naturally without the potions deadening her nerves. They wouldn't have helped at any rate. The after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse clung to her in thick disgusting waves, causing everything to feel so heavy and horrible and disgusting—she could still feel the scream ripping through her throat and spilling past her lips, and _Merlin_, there had to have been something else, had to have been some other way for Zabini to pay Harry back for his betrayal. But five minutes were hardly retribution, for there were two counts of betrayal, and—_tit for tat, _Zabini had answered so coldly that Hermione didn't think she could ever get the terror to disappear.

But still, she sighed, because Zabini had worked out the worse of the pain. He had waited though, waited for the most horrible of the spasms to disappear before levitating her up and cradling her all the way to his chambers. Warm water already filled the tub as he stripped her down to her underclothes to settle her in the porcelain basin, and Hermione had to resist the urge to cry as her muscles continued to contract, even when they were meant to relax.

"What…" Hermione started shakily, wincing as Blaise forced her to rotate her ankles. Her voice was raspy from screaming. "What else…"

"I have yet to decide what to do about Potter's other infraction," Zabini replied coldly. "And you'd best remember that you're still susceptible to torture on his behalf."

Zabini paused then as he glanced towards her, and lips curved into a devilish smirk. "Though I think he may have figured it out by now."

Hermione blinked at Zabini tiredly, and without thinking about it, her fingers curled around the long silver chain that hung from her neck.

"How?" she asked, wishing Harry could be there to comfort her. Zabini sneered at her cruelly, recognizing the need for what it was, and he grabbed her arms forcefully. He helped her work the momentary stiffness out of her elbow, then worked on her wrists, all the while keeping his dark gaze steady with hers.

It was uncomfortable and frightening all at once, but Hermione found that she couldn't be bothered to look away. Her muscles still ached, even as the after-affects faded away with the warmth, and before long, she drifted off into a quiet doze, though sudden stabs of pain had her jolting into awareness.

Zabini was glowering at her every time.

Soon, the water chilled, and Zabini helped Hermione out of it. He gave her a towel to dry off with then disappeared into his room only to return with a pair of faded trousers and an old cotton shirt. He left so Hermione could slip out of her wet undergarments and into the dry clothes, and once she did so, she dug around in the pockets of her robes. Everything was there—Lupin's Diary, the stolen text book, Lupin's notes, _Zabini's_ notes—and Hermione felt a sickening sense of dread descend upon her as she looked at Harry's sloppy writing scribbled beneath Zabini's meticulous one. It must have taken ages to rewrite these equations, absolute _ages, _and all of it had been wasted on an hour of torture. Torture because Zabini had given something to the Dark Lord, something that was incomplete, and…

Hermione felt ill as she thought of the pain Harry had inadvertently forced upon his reluctant comrade.

Though he probably didn't need it anymore. Probably had figured it out again, all one his own, although it would have been much harder to reach this point in the equation. It was all superfluous details, but details that were needed nonetheless, and—

Hermione's fingers trailed over Harry's writing, the words _Asphillis Adelbrandt_ practically scarred into her retinas, and folded the four sheets of parchment into a neat little square. Even if Zabini _had _completed the equation, he deserved it back. He deserved his days upon days of hard work back in his possession, and although it would do no good to him now… Hermione had what she needed from it. She had something else that was pertinent, something she should have realized without needing that damned name… the Inferi were clue enough, after all, but the sheer extent of it—horror still caused her to freeze up at the mere thought of what they were facing down, at the extent of what could happen…

Hermione folded up her dirty clothes and hugged them to her, books and wand stacked neatly atop them.

Zabini wasn't in his room when she exited the bathroom, so Hermione followed the hall back towards his study.

It had been stupid taking her protection for granted, Hermione thought in retrospect. As exhausted and horrified with the situation as she was, she should have realized that Zabini was a Death Eater. No matter how much he may have wanted to repent, no matter what deals he made with Harry, he had become a Death Eater for a _reason_, and she had taken it for granted. Had forgotten. Just like she had forgotten… Ron. Ron. Because it was convenient. Because it hurt her too much. And although Zabini didn't hold a place in her heart the way Ron did, not by a long shot, she had still forgotten something so disgustingly important that she deserved every bit of torture he had dished out for her.

It had been _agonizing_ feeling those five minutes drawn out over the course of an hour. Sometimes the lulls were long by minutes, and other times, by mere seconds, but… Hermione's eyes clenched shut at the horrible pain that had wracked her body, that had almost _broken_ her—

It seemed like it had gone on forever…

Tears stung her eyes, and angrily, Hermione brushed them away, rubbing her face red. It stung in the coolness of the hall, but heat seemed to be emanating from the study as shadows cast by the light of the fire drifted out from the crack in Zabini's study door, flickering oddly against her bare feet.

Hermione sighed then and straightened, gazing purposefully at the folded parchment as she pushed open the large doors, bracing herself against any onslaught of punishment Zabini might have been ready to give her.

None came.

Almost fearfully, Hermione raised her eyes, hoping upon hope that she hadn't walked into an empty study—_but the fire wasn't lit the last time I was here, _Hermione thought vaguely—

And froze.

Horror clutched at Hermione's throat, causing the disbelieving whimper of terror to die off as her mouth opened in a silent scream, because no, no, no, no, _no_—she thought frantically, her brown eyes widening at the sight in front of her.

It couldn't be—no way possible could it be happening, and yet—

"Well," Malfoy said imperiously, his grey eyes settling on Hermione's frozen form in cruel delight. "This certainly does explain everything. A mudblood and a blood-traitor, who would've thought?"

Hermione went cold.

She had just ruined everything.

_Again, _a vicious thought that was surprisingly her own entered the forefront of her mind, and Hermione had to resist the urge to scream in frustration.

Behind Malfoy, Zabini watched her, held her gaze—_one, two, _Hermione counted before he was staring furiously at the fire, his lips curled into a vicious, self-reproaching sneer.

The message was loud and clear, though—_tit for tat_—and that was twice Zabini had been compromised by her and Harry, only this time… this time, it was much worse, and if Zabini had to choose a side, Hermione knew she'd be disregarded without a second thought. That was the nature of his and Harry's agreement, after all, and without much effort, she had just compromised _everything._

Her fingers curled around the engagement band which hung from her neck almost desperately.

She was going to die.

And nothing, not even Harry, could save her.


	7. Chapter 6, part 1

**Title: **Speak Softly (6/?)

**Summary: **War is reason for insanity, and in the face of danger, insanity can be inescapable. A series of vignettes chronicling the lives of Harry, Ron, and Hermione during the final stretch of the war.

**Pairings: **Hermione/Ron, Hermione/Harry, Harry/Ginny

**Genre: **angst, drama, tragedy, horror, post-hogwarts, pre-HBP, pre-DH (though I'll use the spells from both books accordingly)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**PLEASE NOTE:** I have split this chapter into **two parts**.

**Edited 6/29/2010: **Minor spelling and formatting errors corrected.

* * *

_**February 20**__**th**__**, 2000, 9:05 p.m.**_

The stack of clothes and books tumbled out of Hermione's arms quick as lightening, but before she could even get a proper grip on her wand, Malfoy's spell was arcing brightly through the room. It slammed into her chest with a frightening intensity and Hermione's breath left her in one fell swoop as she collided with the edge of the study door. Her head burned with the strange thrum of pain, and the echoes of the Cruciatus Curse burned her veins once more, even as Zabini settled fully against his desk to watch the impromptu battle.

Hermione's chest heaved with agony as she tried to breathe, but her lungs seemed too tight, too constricted. She hacked as Malfoy strode quickly across the room and pressed his wand against her jugular. Hermione watched as his expression shifted—from anger, to hatred, to uncertainty. Her eyes watered as Malfoy's fingers tangled viciously in her hair, and Hermione scrambled to keep a hold of her wand. All it would take was one spell, one simple little spell to send him flying across the room. One simple little incantation to make him forget he had even _seen_ her—

Malfoy's wand pressed harder against her throat, and his other hand wrapped around her body to grab her wrist. He twisted it painfully, grinning horridly as she gave a sharp cry of pain, and it was only when her wand had clattered uselessly to the ground that he shoved her away from him and onto the floor.

The carpet rubbed heatedly against Hermione's skin, and she winced at the marks of vivid red that danced atop her pale skin. She turned almost at once, refusing to shiver at the cold intensity in Malfoy's eyes, at the hatred that threatened to consume her. Her heart was beating frantically in her chest, and—_Merlin, _she didn't want to die, not now, not when there were so many other things she had to work towards. Not when Harry and Ron and Ginny were relying on her to save them, were relying on her to save them from _Voldemort, _and—wasn't that her purpose? To figure out what Voldemort was doing so she could stop him?

Zabini had been so quick to redirect her, and she had been just as quick to redirect the Order. But Zabini's advice had come at a price, because she had compromised him, yet _again_ and—

There was no way he would save her, not this time. He would watch as she fought this battle on her own, watch as she tried to figure a way out of the situation… out of the hatred and the torture and the _agony_—

Hermione's eyes fluttered as she thought of the pain she had endured only moments before. Her muscles ached dangerously and the harsh swell of tears stung her eyes. She kept her gaze on the floor, hoping that Malfoy would be quick with his torture, hoping that she could outlast this just like she had outlasted Zabini's.

Malfoy's lips curled into a disgusted sneer as Hermione turned to face him, her eyes glittering with tears. She lifted her chin defiantly—if she could survive the Cruciatus Curse once, she could survive it again—daring him to bring on his worst. Her eyes sparked heatedly through the tears, daring him to level his wand against her. She wasn't afraid of him, not now, and she owed Zabini. She owed him for Harry's betrayal, for her own, and until that debt was repaid, she wouldn't be able to fight back.

"Tch," Malfoy spat in disgust, twirling his wand through his fingers. "And to think I actually expected more of you, mudblood. How _absurd_."

The malice that tinged Malfoy's voice stung, just as the malice that had tinged Zabini's voice hours before had stung. It wasn't the same without Harry and Ron there to protect her from the vicious barb, and although she had gotten used to stomaching it, she could feel the resentment rising within her. She had risked everything to come here, to unravel this secret regarding the Inferi the only way she knew how—she had discovered secrets and horrible, terrifying truths that caused her heart stop and now… Hermione's fingers curled against the ground as Malfoy watched her, his silver eyes roving over her pain lined face sickeningly.

The terror was there, but the anger even more so, because what else did she have to do to prove everyone wrong? It was bad enough that her own comrades—and what a funny thought that was, seeing as to how she had betrayed them—didn't think her capable of unraveling the secret of the riddle, of understanding what it truly meant. But now—_now—_Malfoy was standing before her, claiming her weak, and there she was, sitting there, living up to his expectations of her.

The sickness coiled in her stomach, even as she shifted slightly, her muscles burning in echoes of agony.

"It's quite funny, you know," Malfoy continued, turning towards Zabini. Zabini tilted his head but refused to look at Malfoy, instead, choosing to gaze stonily at the flickering red flames of the fire. "I thought that I was mistaken. There was no way that you could have possibly betrayed us, betrayed our Lord's cause, but in the end, you really are nothing more than a lying blood-traitor."

Zabini's lips curled at the venom that coated Malfoy's voice, but he didn't say a word.

"At first I thought bringing up Potter and Granger was just a way to torture the Weasel, but—"

Hermione went stock still at Ron's name and she whipped her head around to gaze at Zabini. His lips were still curled in that condescending smile and when he turned to glance at her, his smile suddenly became razor sharp. There was wickedness there, an expression that she hadn't expected to see, one that chilled her to the bone, and the hurt of betrayal coursed through her just as much as the fear did.

Tears of anger stung her eyes; after everything she had said, after everything she had done and been through, Zabini had known—_known_—where Ron was, had even _seen_ him, and yet…

"And who do you think is tortured more, I wonder?" Zabini asked softly, his obsidian eyes glittering in the firelight. "The mudblood who searches frantically for her captured friend or the Weasel who can't even remember the mudblood's name?"

Hermione's heart froze.

"_What?_" she croaked, her heart stilling. Because no—no—there was no way, no _way_ Ron could have forgotten her. It wasn't possible. Not after everything they had been through. Not after everything they had survived. Sorrow flooded her veins then, horrible and cold and agonizing, because a distant thought returned to her, one that made her want to scream and rage and _hurt_, because she had forgotten about Ron, _too, _and—

"Where is he?" Hermione asked, shaken as both men stood over her, pale and dark in the firelight. Malfoy frowned as Zabini crouched down, his dark hand snaking out to capture Hermione's jaw in his long fingers. His grip was bruising but Hermione withstood it, just as she had withstood his curse and anger at Harry's betrayal. Hermione lifted her chin defiantly, her earlier thoughts plaguing her, and hadn't she already realized why Blaise Zabini had become a Death Eater?

"I'd quit worrying about Weasley if I were you, Granger," Zabini said heavily. "After all, I doubt you'll make it out of this alive. And if you do, where are you going to go? Potter's already abandoned you for the Weasley girl, and I highly doubt that your Order will welcome you back with open arms."

Hermione's jaw clenched and she slapped at Zabini's hands, jerking her head out of his grip. He smiled at her, cold and calculating. Next to him, Malfoy frowned, confusion clouding his features. His grip on his wand loosened, and he stared Zabini intently. Whether or not Zabini noticed, Hermione couldn't tell, because Zabini was too busy watching her—obsidian eyes burned violently into sepia—and the anger she felt earlier suddenly morphed into something else.

She took a deep breath, her gaze flickering from Zabini to Malfoy and back again, but neither looked away. Malfoy's lips curled into a wicked sneer as Zabini continued to disregard him, and it was only when the implication of Zabini's words sunk in—_I highly doubt your Order will welcome you back with open arms_—that his earlier question came back to her, fierce and brutal in it's intensity.

_If I were to retract my protection, what would you do?_

The question had burned at her earlier, leaving paths of scorching fire across her mind, because without Zabini, she had no protection from the Death Eaters. No protection from her Order. She had betrayed them; betrayed Harry and Dumbledore and Lupin and—

Hermione went still.

Her gaze wavered from Zabini's, and before she realized it, she was staring at Malfoy intently, her gaze sweeping over his features. He looked just as pale and angular as before, but his face was drawn, despite the hate that twisted his features into an ugly scowl. His gaze seemed heavy, tired, and Hermione could feel her heart rate picking up, skipping as her eyes followed the subtle nick of scars that darted across his jaw. His hands were nicked, too, thin lines curling around his fingers and threading around the tops of his knuckles. Tiny scars even dotted his neck; thin, white and nearly unnoticeable.

Nausea coiled in her stomach at the implications, but the knowledge of what she was about to do was even worse, because everything ran deeper, farther than she thought possible. But if there was one way to get what she wanted, to be able to go back into the arms of the Order without fear of contempt or retribution, this was it. And she could save Zabini in the process.

Hermione licked her lips, watching as Malfoy suddenly noticed her gaze, his silver eyes flashing in disgust and derision. It was going to be hard, but not impossible. After all, if Harry could do it, then she could do it too.

_If I were to retract my protection, what would you do?_

_Barter for it,_ she thought firmly, her gaze slipping from Malfoy's face to linger on the small black book that was hidden amongst the pile of clothes and parchment she had been carrying earlier.

"Malfoy," she started shakily, tensing as his grip tightened around his wand. Zabini leaned back on his haunches, a thin smile spreading across his dark features. Hermione licked her lips as Malfoy's hateful gaze seared into her, but she didn't move from her position, despite how much she wanted to. "Malfoy."

"Don't you _dare_ address me, you filthy—"

"I already know what's going to happen to me and I've accepted my fate," Hermione interrupted seamlessly, straightening her shoulders and staring up at the scowling blonde intently. "I'm not afraid of the torture that's going to be bestowed upon me, or the death that will follow. I won't fight back, regardless of what you do."

Malfoy's scowl lightened, but his wand didn't waver. "You actually expect me to trust a mudblood?"

Hermione pursed her lips.

"Of course not," she answered primly. "I do, however, expect you to listen to what I have to say. And seeing as to how I am at a disadvantage of not having a wand, and Zabini does not see fit to duel you over my safety, you don't have much to lose, now, do you?"

Malfoy's jaw clenched, and he glanced in Zabini's direction as though to confirm he was remaining absolutely still. "And should I choose to torture you now?"

"If you wanted to torture her, I think you would have done so already," Zabini replied simply, folding his arms over his chest. "Face it Malfoy, you're actually curious as to what she has to say."

Malfoy's expression turned ugly. "I didn't ask you, _blood-traitor,_" Malfoy spat acidly, his wand switching targets.

Zabini smiled cruelly, shrugging his shoulders absently. The air between the two men was riddled with tension and as much as Hermione wanted to use the distraction to her own advantage—she couldn't forgive Zabini no matter how much he tried to help her, not for lying to her about Ron, not for letting her know that he _knew_ about him—she would still have to get passed Malfoy to get to her wand, and Malfoy was quick. How many times had he managed to get her with his spells in school, after all?

The thought brought back quick flashes of adolescent humiliation, but Hermione pushed it aside, instead focusing on how she was going to work this. The information was all there, waiting for her to exploit it, and hadn't she been called the Cleverest-Witch-of-Her-Age once upon a time? It seemed so long ago, but so relevant now in the face of such imminent danger. It was always relevant, always when she was involved, and hadn't Zabini had been banking on that? Since the beginning, he had been so careful to steer her in the right direction, away from Harry, away from his task—

The burning ache of betrayal rattled her bones, and she pushed through the hot flash of pain quickly, doing her best to forget.

"I want to make a deal," she stated quickly, the first stirrings of panic surging up on her.

_Forget,_ she thought, the bubble of hysteria creeping even more quickly.

"A deal?" Malfoy asked absently, his hate-filled eyes focused on Zabini's relaxed figure.

"Yes," Hermione breathed, her eyes wide as she watched the shadows flicker off the wall—_forget, can't forget, not like him, not like me, not like—_

Her chest constricted, and her breathing came out in sharp, loud pants; her fingers curled into the fabric of the shirt she was wearing, and her eyes fluttered shut. Hermione tried to force the pain away, to fill the trenches that had suddenly been dug in her mind, but the euphoria was creeping steadily on the wings of hysteria, and she had to get it out—let Malfoy know before… before…

"A _trade_," Hermione insisted, stilling when Zabini's hand suddenly settled against her shoulder. The hot burn of betrayal surged to surface once again, and she jerked away, rocking forward on her knees and onto her feet. Malfoy's hand twitched, and suddenly, his wand was pointed at her, only to flick back in Zabini's direction as he rose gracefully to his feet.

"And not just any trade," Hermione continued. "It would seem unequal from your side, but—"

Hermione paused, her teeth sinking into her lip as she contemplated her next course of action. The guilt festered, but she ignored it, instead allowing her eyes to linger on her pile of clothes and scattered parchment. Oh, it was just so _easy—_

"I am _not_ a traitor," Malfoy spat in disgust.

"I am," Hermione answered simply.

Malfoy jerked instantly, his eyes widening in shock before his face twisted; a sardonic scowl twisted his lips and he let out a harsh snigger which turned into full disgusted peals of laughter.

"And who, exactly, have you betrayed?" He questioned, darkly amused.

Hermione's eyes fluttered as she pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting a wave of sickness—_everyone, no one, too many people to count, _she thought in a fit of hysteria that was quickly quelled by the rising need to get to the point—but the manipulation was there, hidden within the truth, and Hermione was too guilt ridden to say otherwise.

"Remus Lupin," Hermione replied slowly, watching Malfoy carefully. His expression, which was once filled with dark incredulity suddenly went blank; he watched her quietly, expressionless. His dull gray eyes flickered over to Zabini momentarily before settling on her once again. There was nothing in his expression that gave away his mood; his wand was still trained diligently on Zabini, but Zabini's lips had twisted into a deadly smirk, razor sharp in its intensity and made Hermione feel distinctly smug. She had pulled something off that no one was truly expecting, but Zabini had goaded her into—the burn of anger rose up suddenly, but she squashed it down, instead waiting out Malfoy's response.

"And what would you want in return?" he asked quietly, perfectly composed.

"It's more like a matter of _whom._"

Malfoy's eyes flashed in understanding, but Zabini's expression darkened, even as Hermione dutifully ignored him.

"_No_," he hissed darkly, his hands twitching by his side. "Absolutely _not._"

"Unequal indeed," Malfoy murmured, his eyes still on Hermione. "Why?"

"Why Ron? Or why Remus?" Hermione asked quietly, still uncertain as to Malfoy's intentions.

"The werewolf."

Hermione gave a sharp laugh then, shaking her head in despair. "A convenient, but unfortunate matter of circumstance. If it were anyone but you, I… I wouldn't…"

The lie was bitter on her tongue, but Hermione did everything in her power to ignore it.

"Besides," Hermione continued just as quietly. "It would be so simple to regain their trust again, if I had Ron."

"Because the werewolf loves you," Zabini said darkly, his eyes narrowed into slits. Hermione gave a jerky nod but refused to look away from Malfoy. She found solace in his face, solace in the fact that if she were to deliver a crushing blow against the side of Light, he would not as much as blink in her direction. His face was still void of expression, but she could see the thoughts churning in his head, plans starting to form, and she hated the fact that she was so vulnerable to _Death Eaters._ But it was Harry's deal that put her in this position in the first place, and even though she felt the bitterness, the guilt was more profound in its essence. It threatened to swallow her whole, to drown her, to shatter her into millions of tiny shards till she was unrecognizable. It ate away at her with a vengeance she hadn't been aware of, and no amount of self-pity was strong enough to turn her back from this course.

Her life was on the line. There were still so many other things she had left to fight for.

"Very well," Malfoy answered smugly, ignoring Zabini's sharp intake of breath. "I will give you the Weasel." Relief flooded Hermione, only to turn into dread as Malfoy's smug smile twisted into something sharp and deadly.

"_However—_"

"Malfoy—" Hermione tried to interrupt, the panic rising at his gleeful expression.

"—as you so dutifully pointed out, the trade is rather unequal. The information on the werewolves is hardly an adequate enough trade for a life. Especially not for _two._"

The words froze Hermione, and she stared at him with wide, unseeing eyes. She could see where it was headed, could taste it before the words were even spoken, and yet—

"In exchange for information, you get Weasley." Malfoy paused, his gray roving over Hermione hungrily, relishing in her suffering. His lips curled into a horrid sneer, and a sob choked Hermione, making her want to vomit.

He couldn't… she couldn't… tears welled in her eyes, but the sickness had turned to lead, weighing her down seamlessly.

"And in exchange for _Lupin_, you get… _you._"

Her heart broke.

* * *

_**February 21**__**st**__**, 2000, 7:32 a.m.**_

The chill of the morning air permeated her cloak, seeping through her fabric thin clothes and stiffening her limbs, causing the ache to rattle her teeth. Malfoy stood next to her, cheery as day, while Zabini stood behind her, holding Ron's limp body with a barely disguised sneer of disgust. His eyes were boring into the back of Hermione's head, burning like agony, but Hermione ignored it, her limbs heavy with the ever constant nausea that churned unpleasantly in her stomach.

Her eyes were dead.

_A life for a life_, Malfoy had implied coldly, fiercely, and she knew it to be true.

A life for a life. But could she truly give up _Lupin's_ life? The hysteria had grabbed her, her face contorting in horror at what Malfoy was asking her to do—to expand her betrayal, make it more far reaching than she had expected, curling deep within her, tugging at her heart with its dark talons, laughing openly in her face. The situation was ironic at best; a life for a life. Remus, for her. A sacrifice, one that was necessary in Malfoy's eyes, because so long as Remus Lupin was alive, his task was only _that much harder_ and how many werewolves were there, truly, that would really fight for the side of the Light? For Dumbledore? For _Harry?_

Sickness choked her, but it remained carefully hidden behind a neutral expression, one Hermione had perfected in the aftermath of seeing Ron again. She had been too overwhelmed by her horror; she had expected a stronger, emotional reaction, but the sight of him caused her to shut down. Her tears had dried instantaneously and the thought that he was insane—_insane, _her mind supplied cruelly—didn't faze her in the slightest. She could feel it threatening to overwhelm her, to suffocate her…

"I'll be in touch," Malfoy said absently, his gaze settling on Zabini's dark and furious form. "I… _trust…_ you to cooperate."

The irony behind his statement was not lost on Hermione and it struck her painfully, resonating deep within her heart. She could feel the thrums of desperation slowly creeping up, bending her to its will, drowning her with its cruel taint.

Zabini shifted then, and Hermione felt Ron's dead weight slump against her. Instinctively, her arms moved to encircle him, even as his weight deadened her senses, caused her knees to buckle. Zabini steadied her, his hand scorching as it gripped her elbow—Malfoy steeped back, waiting as the black boy leaned forward, his breath hot in the chilly morning air.

"_Weakling,_" he hissed, and Hermione cringed away from him, her eyes wetting momentarily.

"You should stop trying to match Potter's brilliance," Zabini continued as he moved away. "You pale in comparison."

The barb stung, more than Hermione wanted to admit. Hadn't she been saying, only hours before, that she would do anything because it was what Harry would have done? Her stomach twisted once more, but before she could respond, Malfoy and Zabini Apparated away, leaving Hermione to struggle with all of Ron's dead weight. Her hands shifted once more, pulling her wand from her belt loops. She whispered the spell—_mobilicorpus_—and her eyes settled on the house that existed only for her. For Dumbledore. For Snape and Harry and Lupin—

Hermione choked back a sob as she shuffled forward, her hands curled tightly around her wand as she maneuvered Ron. His body bobbed limply behind her, but she could hear his loud, harsh breaths as he breathed in the cool morning air.

His eyes stared blindly at the sky.

She could feel the cool touch of the wards as she slid under them, hidden from sight. The prospect of opening the door, of pressing her small, shaking hands to the wood terrified her, froze her. She could feel the thump of her heart, thudding relentlessly against her ribcage as the anxiety spiked. The fear was colorful, apparent, and Malfoy had thrived on it, watching her horror evolve until she could feel nothing but a shallow numbness, one that cracked and shattered whenever she thought of Lupin.

Lupin.

_Remus._

"_No,_" Hermione thought, shutting her eyes tightly. She couldn't think it. Not now. Not when she was only moments away from getting what she wanted. Ron's breath shifted, halted, and then he let out a sigh, his head rolling on his shoulders. Hermione resisted the urge to glance behind her; he would still be staring blankly up at the sky, completely unaware of her presence, lost in his own mind, _forgetting—_

_Remus._

She turned the handle before it was too late, before she could run back and find Zabini—_it's_ _too late_, she thought weakly, her eyes wetting once again, though she hardly believed even herself. It was too late to renege on the bargain, to go back on everything… Malfoy already had his information, knew what he needed to know about the werewolves…

_Remus._

_It's too late._

It shouldn't have been.

The house was eerily silent as she stepped inside, and the pure chill of being _unwanted_ halted Hermione in her tracks before she crept steadily forward. Ron bobbed in easily; there was nothing unwanted about his presence, nothing about him that screamed betrayal and deceit. He was not a traitor—not by choice, at any rate—and the sudden stab of agony had Hermione exhaling loudly, rubbing as her eyes prickled with tears.

She couldn't lose it. Not now. Not when—

_Remus._

Her lips thinned as she pressed them together, grinding her teeth as she closed the door silently. She listened to the stillness, breathed in the dust with something akin to terror. She stilled, listening into the overwhelming silence, listening for some inkling of life…

The sound of silverware tinkling against plates was muffled by the kitchen door, as was the low murmuring of voices, but it was enough for Hermione's heart rate to spike. The bile lodged in her throat, fear rooting her to the spot and suddenly she wanted to be anywhere but there. Anywhere but in Grimmauld Place. Anywhere but near people she had so openly _betrayed…_

_Remus._

She settled against the steps, wincing as they creaked beneath her weight. Ron continued to hover uselessly next to her, his eyes open, but never seeing. Blind. Vacant.

The tiny shiver of revulsion danced along her spine, but the hurt she felt as his absence had her breathing ragged, her chest heaving as she buried her face into her hands. Her bushy, tangled hair snagged on her fingers, pulling painfully at her scalp. Malfoy had held her like that, his fingers digging painfully against her skull as he threatened her, attempted to take her life…

A life for a life.

_Remus._

_I want to save her…_

Hermione jerked, the tears leaking bitterly down her face. She brushed them away angrily, desperately. She couldn't cry, not now, not when she had made such a _mess_ of things, not when someone else's life was hanging so precariously in the balance. Not when she was supposed to think of something—_anything—_to keep him safe and alive. For him. For Tonks. For _Harry._

But no matter what she did, Hermione continued drawing up blanks.

She had to think of _something._

_Remus._

A harsh sob escaped her lips, echoing faintly in the silence. She pressed her hand against her mouth, biting her cheek viciously; blood smoothed over her tongue, salty and warm in her mouth, but she disregarded it. Another sob escaped her, bitter and broken, but the soft touch upon her elbow, nothing more than a caress stifled it. Hermione glanced up, her heart rate spiking in alarm. She didn't know what to expect, had wanted it to be nothing more than her imagination; there was no one to offer her comfort, no one to stop the numbness from spreading, only to shatter as something else seeped through the cracks.

Her eyes were wet, shining in remorse and sorrow as she gazed at the wrinkled house elf in front of her; Kreacher was still as ugly as she remembered him, just as old and ragged and foul and—

_Remus._

"'Tis the mudblood," Kreacher murmured, staring at Hermione with bulbous, crazed eyes. "'Tis the mudblood staining my Mistress's house, dirtying it with her filth. The half-breeds don't know that the dirty, lying mudblood is here, defiling my mistress's home, does not know that the mudblood taints and stains the good name of Black."

"Kreacher," Hermione whispered, staring at him with wide eyes.

"The mudblood speaks to me, but Kreacher will not speak to it, will not acknowledge the filthy, pathetic, lying…" Kreacher's voice quieted and he stared at her, a vicious grin twisting his lips. "The half-breeds do not know, but Kreacher knows, Kreacher knows and his Mistress will be pleased, pleased when I am rid of the mudblood, pleased when she will not defile the mistress's home any longer. The half-bloods do not know…"

"Kreacher," Hermione implored, growing more panicked with his inane rambling. "_Please._"

But Kreacher had already backed away, a maniacal grin lighting his face, and Hermione's heart twisted in horror.

"MUDBLOOD! TRAITOROUS MUDBLOOD IN THE HOUSE!"

"_No!"_ Hermione shrieked, her voice rebounding off the walls as she lunged for the tiny house elf. Kreacher dodged out of her way and she slammed against the floor, her teeth rattling as she bit down on her tongue. The taste of blood was stronger, even as Mrs. Black suddenly started screeching at the top of her lungs. Without a second thought, Hermione surged to her feet, her body full of panic fueled adrenaline. She twisted to Ron, slicing her wand through the air, lowering him neatly to the ground. She ran, leaping over Ron as she made for the stairs, ready to hide, ready to flee, ready to—

"Ms. Granger."

The voice halted her in her tracks, and suddenly, she could feel their eyes on her as she stood poised, her hands gripping the unsteady wooden railing tightly. Both feet were on the first stair, a few scant inches from where Ron lay on the floor, his eyes still staring unseeingly at the ceiling, completely and utterly _gone—_

Hermione's eyes fluttered shut, but she remained tense, ready and waiting for their spells, for their attack. There was no way that they would let her stay here, not after she had so openly betrayed them. Not when Tonks had seen her disappear with a known Death Eater, with Zabini.

"Professor," Hermione started to say, only to be drowned out when a loud, shocked sob trampled over her quiet voice. She heard the footsteps, the slight feel of air whooshing past her, and then the sobs started in earnest, loud and horrible, and Hermione didn't have to see to know; Mrs. Weasley was there, crouched over her youngest son.

A numb feeling settled in the pit of her stomach when she risked a glance; Mrs. Weasley was cradling him to her breast, smoothing his hair and running her hands over his face, staring at him as though entranced. Her tears leaked from her eyes, and her round body shuddered with each painful sob.

"Oh, _Ron_," Mrs. Weasley wept, barely able to speak even his name.

The scene hurt Hermione, more than she thought possible because this was not how Molly was supposed to see Ron; not limp and dull and lifeless. He was still breathing, that much was apparent, but… the image struck her, leaving her horrible and hollow.

"He…" Hermione started shakily, only to snap her eyes away as Mrs. Weasley glanced to her. "… he hasn't been Kissed, if that's what you're wondering. He's just… absent."

"Absent," the dull, horrible voice asked her, and Hermione ignored it in favor of staring resolutely at Mrs. Weasley.

"Catatonic," Hermione corrected, flinching slightly. "Though, it's only temporary."

"_Hermione,"_ Mrs. Weasley started, but the grateful gleam in her eyes made Hermione's stomach churn unpleasantly.

One. Already there was one that trusted her, one that was glad that she returned, that would back her up if the need be, that would protect her. Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth, forcing the bile back.

_Don't think it,_ she thought viciously, but the name had already surfaced in her mind, bright and clear and violent.

_Remus,_ it screamed, and Hermione covered her face, attempting to stop the sudden influx of tears that burned her eyes.

_Remus._

"He's all I could find," Hermione forced out, pressing the heel of her palms against her eyes. "I couldn't find Ginny. I didn't—_Harry—_he…"

"Ms. Granger."

The voice was devoid of any emotion, and Hermione flinched back, stumbling against the stairs. She fell, sitting down roughly, and the hysteria crept back, rolling on her like thick, dousing waves, fierce in their intensity. The utter uselessness tugged at her, pulled at her, set every nerve ending on _fire—_

_Because the werewolf loves you._

But there was no love in his voice. Only tolerance. No forgiveness. Not until she was adequately questioned. Not until they discovered what was truly compromised, whether the _Order_ was truly compromised. The sobs had ceased but the trembling did not, and Hermione kept her face hidden in her hands. Her chest heaved with each ragged breath, sharp and violent and painful, but she endured it, because it was all she could do. All she knew how to. The taste of her betrayal salted her tongue, embittered her, because she should have been stronger, more cunning.

There were so many things she should have been, could have been, if given enough time. But death was staring her in the face, her life had been on the line—_barter for it, _she thought listlessly, choking on a sob, _a life for a life. Barter for it. Barter for you life, at the cost of another._

_Remus._

"Hermione, how…" that voice was not dull, but full of questions, and Hermione flinched back, even more appalled at who was there. Mrs. Weasley, she could understand, but Tonks—the very person who had reported her missing and a traitor…

"Draco Malfoy," Hermione whispered, leaning heavily against the wall. "He gave Ron to me."

Tonks sucked in a breath and Mrs. Weasley sobbed louder, but aside from that, there was no other reaction. Not from who counted. Hermione's hands dropped heavily to her sides, weighted down by the horrible decision she had made, the guilt that was festering inside of her. How could she even _talk_ to them?

"But I thought… what about Blaise Zabini?"

The burning betrayal erupted, and Hermione's expression darkened, her hands trembling. "_He_ is just a pawn. Someone I barter information from. He's… he's…" Hermione trailed off, and the tears started anew. "He promised Harry to protect me."

"What?" Tonks exclaimed, her eyes going wide. "You mean _Harry_—"

"Since the day Harry disappeared to find Ginny," Hermione explained tonelessly. "He's my protector."

It wasn't so hard, since it was the truth, but the words still manipulated, still twisted things into a perspective favorable for Hermione. It was something that made her ill, something that made her want to kick and scream and bleed, but there was nothing she could do. She _had_ to do it. Had to trick and lie and deceive and hadn't she already proved that she was good at it? She shouldn't have been, but she was, even if a lie was concealed with the truth.

Her eyes fluttered, and she glanced at Tonks, who was staring at her with a strange amount of skepticism. She tried her hardest to keep her eyes trained on Tonks, to make her the sole focus of her observations, but ever so slowly, Hermione's gaze slid to the right, inch by inch. It was agony, the way she had no control over her body. Her mind was screaming at her not to look, not to acknowledge him. If she acknowledged him, then she would _have_ to do it. It would be unavoidable. Everything would change, in one horrible, sickening moment, and—

_Remus._

Her eyes locked with his almost on thought, and she drank up the sight of him greedily, hysterically. His face was blank, amber eyes on her—cold, distant, hard. She could see the suspicion clouding his every thought, the pure _resentment_ he felt towards her, lingering beneath that blank, unassuming surface.

Hermione _shattered._

She flung herself up the stairs, needing to get away, needing to cry and scream and shout and _hate—_herself, no one else, she acknowledged through the haze—but before she even managed to get halfway up the stairs, she felt the whisper of a spell hit her, slamming her limbs to her body stiffly. She left the world whoosh past her as her body crashed into the stairs beneath her—a sharp, angry gasp filled the air, but was quickly blurred out by the encroaching darkness that swept through her the moment her head cracked against the stair.

Pain flooded her, attempting to force a scream past her lips, but her throat was frozen solid, just as her limbs were. The subtle warmth of her wand in her hand was all she managed to feel before the agony reached an unbearable crescendo, destroying everything she was with the force of a wrecking ball. The whispers of darkness clouded her senses as sticky warmth trailed down her scalp, graying her world at the edges—

_Killing people is silly, _a dark voice whispered.

Hermione blacked out.

* * *

Water splashed against her ankles, icy to the touch. The black sands of the bank squished between her toes as she opened her eyes as wide as possible in an attempt to see through the craggy darkness of the underground cavern. Water dripped from the sharp stalactites which hung from the cavernous roof in strange groupings; she watched as opalescent water drops fell into the dark waters below, ripples smoothing out over the still surface.

The witch bit her lip softly, taking a careful step forward.

She had been there once before, she remembered, in the underground river. She had been trapped amongst the manacles which bit into her flesh like icy cold flakes of glass, cutting deeper into tendons and muscles until crimson pooled up onto the pale surface of her skin and dribbled down like diamond drops encased in white gold. She had remembered the way the brittle, exposed bones of his fingers gripped the oar as he floated through dark waters in his obsidian boat, his dark eyes flashing dangerously in the non-light of the cavern. Shadows had twisted and spun the way they were now, clinging to the darkest of crags and milky white images marred the surface of the ebony waters.

The boatman was gone now.

Tiredly, the witch stepped away from the spot where water met land and moved towards the dried pebbled shore. She knelt forward and grasped one in her small hand; its smooth round surface felt cold against her skin, and she turned, flinging the stone out into the river. It skipped against the surface once, then twice, then three times before sinking down into the murky depths.

The cavern was still.

She methodically sat on the shore, watching the ebb and flow of the River as it lapped against the pebbles. Every now and then, she could see more of that milky white substance rise to the surface of the water before sinking down, and the shadows seemed to grow each time. Terror should have clouded her heart, but all she could feel were the rough scars which encircled her ankles; she ran the pads of her fingers over them, memorizing each wretched ridge by feel, by the way which one elongated, crossing over a small indentation before spiraling out into one large, huge blemish.

She licked her lips and pressed on them again, feeling nothing but the cool hard skin that was indicative of a scar, wondering why there was no heat permeating the air, why every breath she took left her in a whoosh of pain and prickly chills.

The silence escalated, her breaths the only sound to punctuate the stillness. The gentle rocking motion of the River met her head on, but she could only watch in silence as the loneliness crept up on her, second after second after second—

_How long must one wait before the ferryman grants one permission to cross? _She thought skeptically, her lip worried between her teeth as she stared into the darkness.

"For as long as the cosmos deem it necessary, as they always have," a soft, lilting voice responded.

The witch jerked around with wide eyes to stare at the new arrival and her heart nearly stopped.

She knew that face, recognized it from the memories she was having so much difficultly remembering—she couldn't put a name to the face, but the stringy blonde hair and the giant, liquid silver eyes were enough to spark a feeling of remembrance in her, one which she hadn't thought she could possess from the moment the ferryman shoved her into the cold waters of the River.

Expectation flashed through her heart—_finally, some answers, _she thought frantically—but the blond girl simply settled beside her, gripping the witch's cool hand firmly in her own. The two girls sat side by side for a long moment—a moment too long, the witch thought, her eyes trained on the bottle-cap necklace which hung in a tangle around the blonde's neck—but the company was welcome, as was the familiarity. Her heart felt warmer, lighter, from just having the strange blond there.

"There are no reflections down here," the blond said at last, turning those bright silver eyes on the witch. "Strange, isn't it? Or perhaps not as strange as it is strange to be here in the first place."

"I'm sorry?" The witch asked, peering into dreamy silver eyes. "Where is here, exactly?"

The blond smiled slowly. "Wherever you want here to be, in the great scheme of things. For example, I want here to be where I am, but you might want here to be where you aren't and where someone else may be—hence, why I am here, but you are not."

The witch frowned, her brow furrowing as her lips pursed.

"That makes no logical sense."

"Whoever said sense had to be logical? As far as I knew, it was always currency. American, if I'm not mistaken, and not at all what you need right now."

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about."

The blond frowned and twirled the end of her necklace around her finger. "That's a funny thing to be afraid of, not having an idea as to what others are talking about. You should be afraid of something more tangible, like radishes, for example. Or Dementors." The witch felt the cold flash of familiarity and the shadows surged greedily forward, as if waiting for something. "Or Ron."

Breath was caught in her throat like chilly fingers wrapping agonizingly around her wrist, and the witch stared, her eyes wide as the name resonated throughout her mind. It drug trenches, thick and deep, curling about her body like the cool mist of a fog, dampening the air with each wet breath she took. Her chest ached with the intensity of the realization—a realization she hadn't quite grasped, but known was there, nonetheless—and instead of silver, she saw the rocky, pale surfaces of the moon reflected upon the water.

"Luna," the witch whispered at long last, blinking in the sight of silvery eyes. "Why are you here?"

Luna beamed and curled her fingers even more tightly around the witch's.

"Currency," she replied simply. "Like Crumple Horned Snorkacks, I seem to be unable to find any."

Luna stood then and darted forward, her bare feet kicking up pebbles behind her.

The witch paused, watching as her friend danced closer and closer to the dark waters, her arms outspread at her side and her face turned up towards the cavernous ceiling; Luna beamed as though she could feel the warm rays of the sun kissing her cheeks, as though its warmth was seeping down to her bone marrow and the witch stood, curious and baffled by her friend's sudden surge of happiness. No one could feel happiness in such a dreary place. The witch certainly didn't.

"Luna," the witch started, wringing her hands worriedly. "Luna what did you mean by currency?"

Luna paused long enough to turn her liquid silver eyes on the witch, a strange smile fluttering about her lips.

"Oh, dear friend," Luna answered, skipping forward to wrap her arms around the witch's shoulders. "Think logically, and you will find yourself headed in the right direction." Luna paused. "Unfortunately the proper currency is no longer current, but… well, They are up to date on these things, just so long as it sparkles gold."

The witch frowned. "Luna."

Luna smiled brightly and placed her hand in the middle of the witch's back, urging her forward. They stepped together towards the edge of the River; the dark waters splashed against the pebbles, and the witch halted, terrified of being trapped in the cool, unrelenting grasp of the waters any longer.

"Do you see those?" Luna questioned, pointing to opalescent blossoms of _something _coiling beneath the dark waves.

"Yes," the witch answered, glancing at her friend askance.

"Like the pock-marked face of the broken moon, they are incomplete, fractured pieces. There are craters and holes and just so much missing from them that once they have fulfilled their one hundred years of waiting, they will be delivered through the darkness in pieces, never to be whole again."

The witch froze. A half-memory dislodged itself from her mind the moment she went still; her chest ached slightly from holding back her breath, her surprise. A cool terror that she had never felt before began to work its way back up her throat, and in a panic, she whirled to face to Luna, to see the pale, dreamy expression on her friend's face, hoping against hope that Luna hadn't just said what the witch thought she did…

"Luna—"

"And then, in time, they will be the darkness, searching for the fragmented pieces of what they used to be: a complete, unbroken circle."

The witch stared, her pupils dilating as she struggled to speak her friends' name once more.

"Killing people is silly," Luna murmured, smiling at the witch serenely. "Please remember that."

"_Luna—_"

Luna pressed a soft, cool hand to the witch's cheek affectionately. "It's time for you to wake up."

A scream echoed through the cavern and the witch felt the world beneath her crack.

"Goodbye, Hermione."

Her world shattered.


	8. Chapter 6, part 2

**Title: **Speak Softly

**Summary: **War is reason for insanity, and in the face of danger, insanity can be inescapable. A series of vignettes chronicling the lives of Harry, Ron, and Hermione during the final stretch of the war.

**Pairings: **Hermione/Ron, Hermione/Harry, Harry/Ginny

**Genre: **angst, drama, tragedy, horror, post-hogwarts, pre-HBP, pre-DH (though I'll use the spells from both books accordingly)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**PLEASE NOTE: **Chapter 6 Part 2

**Edited 6/29/2010: **Minor spelling and formatting errors corrected.

* * *

_**12:02 p.m.**_

It was like walking on shards of glass, but much worse. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had ever felt something more painful—(_Crucio, _a fresh, oozing memory whispered at her, and she could see the cold depths of obsidian burning down on her as the curse swept through her veins, flashing with malicious hatred and glee of wicked revenge)—but emerging through the fog of hazy unconsciousness was like wading through sludge and it hurt.

Pain throbbed outwards from the back of her head towards the front; her eyes ached too much to open them and with the groggy sense of someone who wished she could fall back into the pit of unconsciousness once again, Hermione prodded the bump on the back of her head with stiff fingers, groaning loudly as stars burst behind her eyelids at the contact.

"Oh, _Merlin_," Hermione moaned, rolling over onto her side and burying her face into her pillow. "Which one of them hexed me?"

"That would be Mr. Lupin, I presume," a calm, but heavy voice replied. Hermione froze, her face still buried in her pillow. It didn't take much to guess who was sitting in the room with her and tightness coiled about in the pit of Hermione's stomach. She wasn't ready to face Dumbledore yet—_couldn't _face him—and she tried to think of something else, something that would make the knowledge of her betrayal to Dumbledore less profound.

It didn't work.

Like a ship caught in a gale storm wind at sea, all of her guilt and despair slammed into her and Hermione wished she could have been faster, could have thought to put up a shield charm before running up those stairs because at least she wouldn't be laying there now, forced to bear the weight of Dumbledore's presence. Forced to deal with the knowledge that Remus—_Remus, _her old Professor and mentor and _friend _(_though we can't even be considered friends anymore, _Hermione thought with a painful jolt)—had hexed her and hurt her… the memory of her head cracking against the stairs and blood coating her bushy hair warm was enough to make Hermione's insides squirm in her anxiety.

"Oh," Hermione managed to utter past the lump in her throat.

"Indeed," Dumbledore replied. "You see Ms. Granger, I seem to be at a loss which, if you'll permit my arrogance, being cleverer than most is quite uncharacteristic of me. Perhaps you would be willing to enlighten me?" Hermione clutched her pillow to her face and let out a shaky breath. She didn't want to enlighten him on anything, didn't want to have to deal with the depth of her betrayal. Not then. Not right at that moment. But Dumbledore had sprung himself up on her quite unexpectedly and Hermione's mouth went dry at the notion that Dumbledore would _know_ and there would be absolutely nothing she could do to keep it hidden from him.

There was too much at risk with what he was trying to accomplish, after all.

"It would also help for you to look at me, if you would be so kind," Dumbledore prompted, and the reprimand in his voice had Hermione jerking upwards without thought, wincing as the light burst in front of her eyes and her head went fuzzy.

"Oh," Hermione murmured, pressing her hands to her eyes as she got her bearings. "I wasn't quite expecting that."

"I doubt anyone expects painful repercussions after such an ardent and obvious betrayal, if only because they are never expecting to be caught in the first place," Dumbledore replied serenely, and Hermione bit into her lip fiercely in an attempt to quell the burst of anger that blossomed in her chest.

"No sir, I expect traitors usually don't."

"And, naturally, that is the crux of the matter, is it not? But even so, I must repeat that I am at a loss for I can not fathom how one such as you, Harry's best friend and fiancée, would be so quick to align yourself with Voldemort's cause when Voldemort's regime not only promises the subjugation of Muggleborns but the death of Harry as well."

Hermione twisted her blanket in her fingers, her eyes clenched tightly closed. "This is, of course, based on the assumption that _I _am actually aligning myself with Death Eaters and not the other way around, yes?"

Dumbledore paused audibly and Hermione chanced a glance in his direction, terrified of what she would see on his wizened old face. Surprise melded heavily with suspicion and Hermione had to resist the urge to flinch away from those sharp blue eyes which seemed to have lost focus. Hermione knew he didn't need to ask for clarification, but would because he would want to know the whole story. A story Hermione couldn't tell because that would be another betrayal under her belt and Zabini had made her swear not to tell anyone about him or his reasons (though Hermione had to admit she wasn't quite sure of them herself) and the overwhelming ache that accompanied the thought of betrayals—_Ron, Harry, Dumbledore, Remus_—drifted throughout her mind like a dense cloud of Dementors fog, leaving her cold and chill and empty.

"Please explain what you mean," Dumbledore managed at last, his voice soft as he blinked rapidly behind his moon-shaped spectacles.

"I—sir," Hermione began desperately. "I… I _promised_… some secrets have to be kept and I—"

"Such as the secret of Harry's whereabouts," Dumbledore interrupted. "Or the secret of why you stole valuable information conducive to the Order's destruction of Voldemort. Or, perhaps, the reason why both Draco Malfoy's and Blaise Zabini's names were mentioned upon your arrival and delivery of Ronald Weasley, who is not only catatonic but bears the signs of being—" Dumbledore cut himself off abruptly, watching with shrewd eyes as Hermione whipped around to stare at him, her eyes wide and glassy.

"Headmaster—"

"—bearing all this in mind, Ms. Granger, you wish for me to disregard questioning whether the safety of the Order has been compromised, the depth of your betrayal, and to believe without proof of fact that two Death Eaters have aligned themselves to you—"

"—or to Harry," Hermione cut in seamlessly, watching with dread as the color drained from Dumbledore's face.

"Or to… to Harry," Dumbledore muttered with faint surprise.

"You do trust Harry, don't you Professor?" Hermione asked quietly. Dumbledore glanced away to study a dusty tapestry hanging on the wall.

"I trust Mr. Potter implicitly, Ms. Granger, but we are not currently discussing my ability to trust or Mr. Potter's ability to be trusted and we will speak no more on that matter," Dumbledore answered sternly, his blue eyes sparking with thinly veiled irritation. "What I wish to hear from you Ms. Granger is why you found it necessary to steal—"

"I can't answer that," Hermione cut in, her eyes pricking with the threat of tears. "I tried to ignore it Professor, I really did, but… it's just that… every time… every time I thought about it I felt like… it's just…" Hermione trailed off weakly, the words caught in her throat.

She knew there was something she should say, knew there was something she had to say but the moment she thought of the feeling, it was gone, whisked away on the after thought of a dream, stuck steadfastly in the shadows that flickered about in her mind like a sludgy poison. Hermione could see the scar where she had sliced her finger open on the sharp edge of her parchment, the day she was supposed to meet Zabini in Diagon Alley.

Hermione stared blandly.

She had a paper cut on her right index finger.

"Ms. Granger," Dumbledore prompted softly, watching her with narrowed eyes. "You were saying?"

"Grindelwald," Hermione said suddenly, still unable to take her eyes off her hands. "Before Voldemort, Grindelwald was considered one of the most ferocious, violent, and dangerous Dark Lords to have ever walked the earth. He wasn't obsessed with immortality like Voldemort, but rather with power, with having power over millions of souls, both dead and alive."

Dumbledore frowned, his blue eyes dulling slightly.

"That's the key word, isn't it?" Hermione questioned, turning to face Dumbledore with bright wide eyes. "_Souls. _Everything needs a soul if it wants to _live_ but what about those that are dead? What about… what about Inferi, Professor? Inferi don't have souls, they're just—"

… _incomplete, fractured pieces…_

"—absent."

Dumbledore stiffened.

With excruciating slowness, Hermione turned to face her former Headmaster, her sepia colored eyes dull with frightening realization. _I suggest you figure Weasley out on your own, _Zabini had said, and for a moment, Hermione thought that she had. She thought she had known Ron, thought she had known everything that he was about, but she didn't know why he left. She had heard the voices just as clearly as he had, but the truth of the matter was that she hadn't truly understood. She had been caught up in a flood of emotion and pleasure and _Ron_ and concentrating on him had been difficult when the voices came, but he had managed to make everything else disappear, just like before. Just like old times.

"Professor," Hermione started quietly, her heart beating rapidly against her ribcage in a frightening crescendo. "Why was Ron expelled from the Order?"

Dumbledore folded wrinkled hands over his lap, but didn't say a word. Suspicion warred with terror inside of Hermione, and she thought that if she could just understand, if she could just remember _why—_

But Ron hadn't told her. She hadn't been with him when it had happened.

Despair like nothing Hermione had ever felt before welled up within her and she felt tears slick down her cheeks, leaving trails of thick wet on her skin. Dumbledore continued to watch, stiff and impassive, as Hermione felt the burning realization prickling under her skin, as she realized that the Headmaster _knew _why Ron had been taken, why Voldemort wanted him and Ginny so _badly…_

"Professor," Hermione breathed, only to be interrupted when Dumbledore said, "There are some things, Ms. Granger, which I can not disclose to you and are better left unsaid."

Hermione laughed bitterly.

"Well then," she said, wiping fiercely at her eyes. "I suppose I can expect you to extend that same courtesy me, all things considered."

Dumbledore's eyes hardened. "Ms. Granger—"

"I won't leave, Professor," Hermione interrupted through clenched teeth, staring blindly at the tapestry hanging from the wall. "I'll remain here, under constant supervision, if you will, and when you're ready to tell me what happened to Ron, I'll tell you everything."

A bushy silver eyebrow rose in question. "Everything?"

Hermione gave a slow nod. "Contrary to popular belief, I didn't run into the arms of a Death Eater to give away Order information and I somehow managed to come away with more than just Ron. But as I said, when you're ready to tell me what happened to Ron, I'll be more than happy to tell you everything I've learned and know."

Dumbledore remained quiet, mulling over his choices. Hermione could see his frustration in his eyes, could see the way he wanted to question and question and question her, but she wouldn't give in. If what she thought was true—and it had to be true, for there was no other explanation for it—then Dumbledore just _had_ to tell her, had to tell her because then she would know and she would be able to do something about it and Ron—

_Ron._

It was always so amusing how everything seemed to come back to Ron.

It started there, she knew. Whatever happened to Ron, whatever reason for him being expelled from the Order… it started _there_, because if that hadn't have happened, then Ron might still be there, with her. Ron might still have his mind and—

_Don__'t think about that now, not until Dumbledore gives you answers, _Hermione thought fiercely, shoving the agonizing thought away.

Dumbledore sighed. "I'm afraid I find that proposal to be quite unappealing, Ms. Granger."

"Yes, I suppose you do," Hermione answered blandly. "But then it always hurts when the people you trust keep secrets from you, doesn't it Professor?"

Dumbledore didn't respond. He simply stood with a genial smile that was strained to the point of grimacing and swept out of the room, the door clicking shut silently behind him.

_Well, _Hermione thought, her fingers clutching her chest. _That could have gone worse._

But it didn't matter. She knew all she needed to know. Despite bringing Ron back, despite getting back in Mrs. Weasley's good graces, Hermione knew.

Not one, single member of the Order trusted her.

They had no reason to.

* * *

_**February 22, 2000, 1:31 p.m.**_

Hermione hadn't wanted to see Lupin, not so soon, not before she could work out a way to get out of paying Malfoy with Lupin's life, but the moment she stepped out of her room to get some lunch, Lupin was standing there, arms folded and expression closed off. He stared at her, his amber eyes dull in the dim lighting of the hall, and Hermione could only freeze, caught somewhere between fleeing back inside of her room and darting past him and down the stairs, spurred by her need to eat.

She'd been too guilt ridden to eat the night before, too shame-faced to try and tackle breakfast with the constant surge of Order members in and out of Grimmauld Place.

Now her heart felt weighted down, like hot lead.

She didn't like it.

"Ms. Granger," Lupin greeted coldly, his amber eyes hard and the lines on his face drawn tight. His fingers were curled around his wand, and Hermione could only watch with mild horror as he lifted it slightly, his eyes growing darker and fiercer with each inch it rose. "I will say this plainly: I do not trust you. I can not pretend to understand why Albus has been so foolish as to allow you to stay in this house, but I will not allow you to further compromise the Order with your questionable alliance."

The spell was quick, non-verbal, but she felt it settle over her rapidly, felt the hair on her arms stand on end and the sick feeling of eyes watching her from all around—constant, constant, _constant—_had Hermione reeling back against her door, her hands gripping the door handle tightly.

"Remus—"

"Where is it?" Lupin cut in harshly, his wand twitching once again. "What did you do with it?"

"With what?" Hermione questioned tremulously, fearing the answer, fearing what Lupin's retribution would be. She could tell the moment he knew what she was talking about, could tell the moment that he knew she was aware of what had been written in it because his eyes shut in painful anger and he jerked a step away from her, his wand trembling in his clenched fist.

"I should have expected that," Lupin replied, his voice cold and mild. "And who did you give it to?"

Hermione's lip trembled, but the lie was out before she could stop it, tainting the air cold. "I… I didn't—"

"Do not try my patience, Ms. Granger," Lupin replied through clenched teeth. "Tonks and Mrs. Weasley checked every inch of you for dark magic and information and you only came back with two of three of the objects that you left with. Now tell me, _where is the journal?_"

Hermione opened her mouth, unsure of what to say. Her heart ached at the sight in front of her, at the pure fury that was coloring Lupin's words and face, but she understood why. She understood because she had read page after page of his journal, had understood his feelings, understood _everything_ it seemed, except how he was going to die because she had been too stupid, too selfish, too—

"Draco Malfoy has it," Hermione whispered softly, her eyes trained heavily on the floor. "The Dark Lord has taken Fenrir Greyback out of the werewolf Sanctuary and replaced him with Draco Malfoy."

"And you got Ron in exchange," Lupin continued without prompt, his voice quivering in his rage. "You gave—you made a deal with Death Eaters for… for Ron." Lupin laughed weakly. "He has the Dark Mark, you know."

Hermione's jaw clenched. "Not willingly."

Lupin smiled grimly. "You know Ms. Granger, I've learned that regardless of how much you want to believe the best of someone, they always find some way of betraying those expectations." Hermione reared back as though she had been slapped in the face, her eyes snapping towards Lupin in disbelief. "If you recall, Ron left. He went with the Death Eaters willingly—"

"He didn't have a choice!" Hermione interrupted, eyes wild.

"But you did," Lupin replied with a dark voice. "And you made the choice to steal and to put my work, my life, and the lives of other werewolves in danger. If they do not convert to help Voldemort he will kill them." Lupin took a step forward, his body taut with fury. "Is your heart so selfish that you would risk the lives of many just to save the one?"

Hermione's eyes pricked with tears and the guilt flooded her anew. "You don't understand."

Lupin laughed then, harsh and bitter and angry and Hermione wished she could be anywhere but there, anywhere but staring her guilt in his face, knowing that soon—_soon, _Hermione thought frantically, _I have to find a way to save him soon—_she would have to take Lupin to Malfoy, have to give his life in exchange for her own and he was so much more important, so much _stronger_…

"I don't make it my business to understand the minds of traitors, Ms. Granger."

The silence was deafening, buzzing through the air like a swarm of bees. It was as if everything had been doused by the horrible buzzing of _Muffliato_, as though someone had erected a huge barrier of silence around the two. Cotton stuffed Hermione's ears just as lead weighed down her heart and her lip trembled as tears slicked her cheeks warm. She could see Lupin standing before her, could tell what was in his heart now, could tell that it had been changed and altered and—

_I want to save him._

Things had changed so drastically.

At first, Hermione couldn't fathom the depth of what Lupin felt—he wanted to save her, to protect her, but that feeling was now gone, tarnished and tainted with the anger of her betrayal. She had felt nothing but a genuine respect for an old professor, saw him as nothing more than a mentor. And now—_now…that is the right word isn't it? Now isn't what it was yesterday, because yesterday he didn't hate me. Now he does._

Hermione watched Lupin in silence, hurting and guilty and shamed and so weak-hearted.

_I __**have**__ to save him, _she thought as his jaw tightened and he stowed his wand away.

"Professor Dumbledore doesn't know," Hermione said quietly, stuffing her trembling hands into her pockets. "Please don't tell him."

Lupin's eyes narrowed in fury. "You have no right to ask me for anything. Good day, Ms. Granger."

Lupin pivoted on his heel and strode quickly down the hall. A moments hesitation was all Hermione took.

"Remus," she said quietly, watching as his shoulders went stiff and he tilted his head in her direction.

Her hands were warm, her palms sweaty.

"I'm sorry, Remus, I really am," Hermione whispered. "But there are some secrets which are worth protecting."

Lupin whipped around, his wand out, the non-verbal spell flashing across his mind, but Hermione was faster, already been prepared.

"_Obliviate."_

She knew the moment the spell hit him; saw the way his amber eyes glazed over in a fit of hazy forgetfulness. Licking her lips, she quickly stuffed her wand back into her pocket and slunk past him, her heart aching as his gaze remained distant, as the amber orbs didn't flicker to her in recognition and acknowledgment. There was nothing there, not even when she continued down the stairs and out of his sight, not even when the feeling of eyes watching her made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

Mrs. Weasley was puttering around the kitchen fretfully, her hands gripping a half-clean wash cloth that she was using to wipe down the kitchen table. Everything looked spotless when Hermione entered, and her heart clenched in guilt—she was the one that had made Mrs. Weasley so upset, bringing Ron back, especially when he was in such a state—(_a state Hermione couldn't bring herself to think about, not right then, not when there were so many traitorous thoughts and actions tainting her mind and poisoning her character_)—and Hermione bit her lip guiltily, taking a cautious step further into the kitchen.

"Mrs. Weasley?" Hermione asked softly, grimacing when the portly woman turned to face her.

"Oh! Hermione dear," the woman whispered faintly. "Is there something you needed?"

Hermione opened her mouth and then closed it, unsure of what she should say.

"I—I'm a bit hungry," she ventured at last, watching with thinly veiled shock as Mrs. Weasley's eyes flashed.

"Then you'll have to make it yourself, I'm afraid," Molly said stiffly, turning away from Hermione to begin scrubbing the counters once again. Hermione blinked; dumbfounded at the way Mrs. Weasley had dismissed her so openly she skulked over to the pantry, searching for something simple to snack on.

There was a pile of chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties and cauldron cakes, but Hermione wasn't in the mood for candy, nor did she think she could stomach it. Pushing the junk food aside, she gripped a dusty bottle of butter beer and a loaf of bread; she brought it to the counter, slicing two pieces for herself and wrapped them in a napkin, forgoing butter and jam before slinking over to the door to head back to her room.

"Hermione," Mrs. Weasley spoke up as Hermione had one hand poised on the door. Hermione turned; unsure of what she would see on the older woman's face, but bright gratitude mingling with tears was not what she was expecting. "Hermione, I just—thank you, darling. Thank you so much for bringing my son back to me. I know that all anyone sees is just… but thank you. Arthur and I are so grateful."

A question Hermione hadn't thought to ask suddenly blossomed in her mind, and she set her food down onto the table.

"Mrs. Weasley," she began uncertainly. "Where _is_ Ron?"

Molly licked her lips and glanced away, twisting the rag in her hands convulsively. "I was asked not to say anything to you about Ron, Hermione, but I just—you saved my son, I should—"

"—not say a word, as those were your orders, were they not?"

Lupin's hard voice was grating and infuriating and made Hermione jump and whirl around to face him as he entered the kitchen. His expression was blank and closed off, but Hermione could see confusion in his gaze as he glanced at her, could tell that he was pondering what went wrong, why she hadn't been in her room when he went to see her. She could see the question lingering on the tip of his tongue and she scooped up her food without a thought and moved through the door, sending Mrs. Weasley a strained smile.

"It was no trouble Mrs. Weasley," Hermione said, pausing at the door. "I'd like to think Ron would have done the same for me."

"He would have," Molly said fiercely with a blazing expression. "He loves you."

Hermione didn't say a word, just watched as Mrs. Weasley's expression remained fierce, as Lupin stared stolidly at the table in front of him, partially dazed and confused. Then his eyes flashed to hers, dark and furious and _hating_—_traitor, _they seemed to scream, and Lupin had dealt with traitors enough in his life, he didn't need another—and Hermione offered one last shaky smile before pushing the door open and walking out of the kitchen, into the hallway.

The feeling of being watched never left, not even as she ascended the stairs and entered her room, not even when she stuffed her face with two pieces of dry bread and drained her Butterbeer, not even when she curled up in a tiny ball and tried to think the day away. Hermione wished that she had been faster and stronger and _smarter_ than Malfoy because then she would never have to look her betrayal in the face day in and day out, waiting and waiting and _waiting _for Malfoy to call on her.

He was waiting for the right opportunity, Hermione knew. Waiting for her to crack and break and Hermione couldn't repel the sickening churning in the pit of her stomach. Malfoy was waiting to kill Lupin. To kill _Remus_, one of the only people Harry had left. The only connection left to his parents. The only person who was not a traitor or dead or a child, playing at being an adult. Hermione's eyes stung with tears as she thought of Harry, who was out searching for Ginny. Ron, who was hidden away from her. Dumbledore, who was hiding things _from _her, and—

_There are some secrets worth protecting. _That was what she had said to Remus; Hermione knew it would utterly break him if he ever found out that the only reason she was back, the only reason she was sitting in that house was because she had promised to bring him to Malfoy. Remus was the only obstacle Malfoy would have in completely taking over the Sanctuary and bringing the werewolves into the Dark Lord's circle of power. There was something so bright, so brilliant about Remus—

_You pale in comparison._

_To more than just Harry, it seems_, Hermione thought bitterly, caught in the vestiges of Zabini's razor sharp words. For a moment, she couldn't help but think about Zabini too—was he all right? Had Malfoy disclosed his treachery? Would Malfoy spare him if Hermione delivered Lupin to him like he—_no, _Hermione thought viciously, wrapping her arms around her stomach, _I won't. Malfoy won't get Lupin… I won't let him, I'll—_

_I__'ll save him. _

_Or die trying, _a soft voice in the back of her mind whispered.

Hermione's eyes closed gently, tears that made her throat tight and her chest ache flowing down her face, full of shame and regret and remorse.

_Or die trying, _Hermione agreed.

The room was silent.

* * *

_**2:36 p.m.**_

"I have decided not to reveal your betrayal to our Master," Malfoy said at last, his pale fingers reaching out to grip Zabini by his elbow. Blaise froze, his obsidian eyes flashing over to murky silver ones, refusing to pander to Malfoy's games. He knew how the Malfoy heir worked, knew that he would work everything to his advantage until he had everything to gain and nothing to lose.

Zabini didn't like it.

"How fascinating," Blaise answered, subtly pulling his arm from Malfoy's lax grip. "And to what do I owe this show of mercy?"

Malfoy grinned. "Nothing, my dearest friend. Just… know… that if the mudblood doesn't deliver, it'll be your head on the chopping block. The Dark Lord doesn't take well to traitors, but I will milk Granger for every morsel of information she's worth, starting with Lupin."

Blaise looked away. "And you want me to help you."

"She believes you to be a traitor, does she not? For some reason, she trusts you, otherwise she would not have been there and—well, I don't suppose I need to tell you how nice it'll be to see the look on Potter's face when he realizes the reason why the Dark Lord won is not only because he is far more powerful but because _his _mudblood was the one supplying us information. Don't you agree Blaise?"

Blaise's face twisted, but he didn't respond. He knew Malfoy would take it for what he thought it would be—acquiescence. Agreement. Malfoy was always so quick to lay his cards and motivations on the table, even in the presence of one he thought was a blood-traitor. Still—_still, _Blaise thought, wincing as Malfoy's hand encased his elbow once again—underestimating Malfoy was not an option. He was vicious and calculating and despite seeming so eager to gain glory Malfoy knew how to take his time. How to process. It was how he had managed to trap Granger, to make her feel so helpless that she thought there was no way out of giving up Lupin's life. And there was, but it was at the cost of her own and Blaise wasn't quite sure Granger was ready to give her life up yet.

One way or another, Malfoy would land a crushing blow to Potter, unless Granger was quicker, stronger.

She wasn't. Blaise knew this. Granger was stupidly desperate. When she was desperate, she couldn't be clever and could only try so hard to be something that she wasn't—_just use that stupid brain of yours, Granger!_ He had wanted to shout at her, and the weight of his promise to Potter, of what was at stake if Granger was ever harmed…

"Granger's smarter than she looks," Blaise managed at last, facing his comrade with a look of polite disinterest. "If you want Lupin, you're going to have to act fast; otherwise, she'll find a way out of it."

Malfoy hummed low in his throat, gazing out the window of Zabini's study and towards the bright sky, where the dim figure of the moon hung, half-hidden behind mackerel colored clouds.

Malfoy grinned, razor sharp and deadly.

"You need to have more faith, Blaise," Malfoy said arrogantly. "Granger's not the only one that's smarter than she looks."

Blaise didn't say a word. There was nothing to say, after all. Not to Malfoy.

Draco wasn't the wizard that mattered.

* * *

_**February 23, 2000, 12:00 a.m.**_

"_Crucio!"_ The curse ripped itself from Harry's mouth unexpectedly and all at once and the shock of the scream of pain nearly knocked him off his feet, leaving him sprawled in the undergrowth of the large mansion. Travers writhed on the ground, his young comrade stunned and bound not ten feet away.

Blood trickled down Harry's side, washing it warm, and he limped forward, one hand pressed against the oozing wound while the other held his blood spattered wand; Travers's mouth opened and his body twisted as he let out a blood curdling scream, slicing through the air like a white hot serrated blade. Harry held the curse long enough to grab Travers's wand and stow it in his pocket, his bloody fingers leaving smears over the dark wood.

Travers was heaving; violent tears streamed down his face, catching on the point of his narrow nose. His gray hair was in shambles atop his head and Harry leaned down, pressing his knees into the Death Eater's hands, eradicating any chance of the man attacking him once he recovered from the excruciating curse.

"Where's Ginny?" Harry hissed, pressing his wand neatly against Travers's jugular. "Where is she?"

Travers laughed weakly. "The blood-traitor? You have… you have been tracking us… following us… all for a _blood—_" Harry jabbed his wand viciously into Travers's neck, causing the man to sputter and choke in pain.

"You know where she's being hidden. She trapped under _your _wards," Harry said, his eyes blazing. "You will tell me where she is and how to dismantle them or I'll—"

"Or you'll _what_?" Travers snapped, spittle flying and hitting Harry in the face. "You'll curse me again? Getting a little dark there, aren't you Potter?"

Harry's blood ran hot but the shame wasn't enough to make it stop. His heart ached with the terror of what the Dark Lord was doing to Ginny—_again, _a traitorous voice whispered, and the chain around his neck was heavy with the promise he was breaking—because she had already been through so much before. Harry didn't want Ginny to be in pain, didn't want her to suffer, but so much time had already passed and Harry knew that the longer it took, the harder it would be to get her back in one piece.

He didn't want to see her broken. Not like Ron had been.

Harry dug the tip of his wand sharply into Travers's neck. "Tell me."

"No," Travers said, his voice mocking and sing-song.

"_Diffindo!_" Harry shouted, slashing his wand downwards and watching as blood spurted up into the air, showering him with sticky warmth. Travers's eyes went wide and his mouth opened up into a scream—Harry sealed Travers's tongue against the roof of his mouth instead, taking away the relief of screaming, taking away _everything _except pain and blood and torture and Harry hated himself right then, hated himself more than he had ever hated anything but he _needed to find Ginny and do it quick._

"_Where. Is. She?"_ Harry reiterated once the agony had subsided. Travers looked at him through watery eyes.

"I won't… I'll never…"

Harry's eyes went hard.

"_Crucio._"

Blood soaked the front of Travers's robes, the wound on his chest splitting open as he screamed and this time, Harry let him, Harry let him because no matter how long and hard Travers screamed, there would be no relief, not from the Cruciatus Curse. Harry had felt it so many times before, felt it when Voldemort used it against him, felt it when he dreamt of his hand shattering glass and the Weird Sisters hanging overhead and—_that was Ginny's dream, not mine_, but the memory was so hard to forget, so hard to ignore, especially when all he could see was that darkness and the feel of no light, the feel of matches gone wet in his hands while his nails chipped and scrabbled against mossy flagstone—

_Ginny, not me!_ Harry shouted in his head, watching when Travers gave a warbling scream, watching as he saw the rebellious light in Travers's eyes dulled and knew that he had been _broken—_

"Where's Ginny?" Harry asked once again, snot and tears and whimpers of pain dribbling down Travers face and into the open air.

Travers blinked rapidly. "Se… secret…" he whispered weakly, struggling to get his hand out from beneath Harry's heavy knees.

Harry let him.

With excruciating slowness, Travers brought his hand up to cup Harry's face; Harry had to fight back the instant urge to recoil, to curse and not think, but then the knowledge was streaking through his head, of wards and locations and Death Eaters and suddenly, he saw her, crouched low in the corner of a dank room, fiery hair wild and half-hidden in the cold shadows. He knew every line, every shadow in her face; he had memorized every thing there was to know about her, knew what caused her to scream in half-insanity, to beg and to plead and to claw at the mark scorching her arm red and—

_That__'s not the Ginny I know, _Harry thought, but it didn't matter because _he had the secret._

Travers was no longer needed.

Harry wrenched away from the Death Eater with a quick jerk, standing up and wincing as the wound on his side bled anew. Travers's partner twitched, but didn't move, and the two wands felt heavy in his pocket, just as the chain around his neck did. Frowning slightly, Harry tugged on the chain, touched his wand to it and felt it flare briefly under his touch.

His lips twitched in triumph.

Zabini knew.

With one last glance in Travers's direction, Harry spun on his heel, doing his best to ignore the flood of guilt and disgust he felt at seeing the Death Eater's mangled body.

It didn't work.

Harry left.

* * *

_**2:48 a.m.**_

Blaise prodded Malfoy cautiously, watching as the blond slept away, trapped too deeply in his potion-induced sleep to register the touch. It had been tricky, catching Malfoy unaware, but the blond had been far to secure in his sway over Blaise to fully realize why the black man had suddenly winced in pain, his hand going up to rub at his neck. Still, Blaise supposed it had worked out in the end. Malfoy had not wanted to be caught unaware, so he decided to stay up as Blaise remained awake—_once a traitor, always a traitor, _Blaise thought bitterly, but he had received Potter's message loud and clear, understood what it meant.

Potter had finally broken Travers.

Smiling grimly, Blaise cast a spell that would alert him if Malfoy woke from his potion-induced sleep; it wouldn't do to get caught helping the other Weasley, especially when there was nothing to gain from it—_except, _Blaise thought, _there is everything to gain from it. _The spell settled, stuck, and Blaise turned, sweeping quickly out of the room and into the corridor.

He needed to work quickly. It wouldn't be long before Potter reached Travers's stronghold and knowing Potter, he was going to need all the help he could get.

Blaise Apparated out of the entrance hall.

* * *

_**3:21 a.m.**_

Cold. Vacant. Empty.

_Just remember to breathe._

Water. Ice. Shards of glass.

_Can__'t breathe what your body won't accept, _except it had and instead of ice and cold and aching numbness, there was fire. Fire working its way through her body like a thousand needles prickling the surface of her skin and—

_Glass embedded into flesh and dead tortoises sliding across a blood soaked floor and__—_

She remembered this.

She remembered it like she remembered darkness, because to her it was the darkness—_step step scratch_—because to her it clung and festered and turned into something she didn't quite understand and didn't really want to. It was difficult understanding what was in her own mind, difficult to understand why it was suddenly raining bloody hands and sharp razors, but a crooning, raspy voice was singing poison into her mind and Ginny didn't stop to dwell on it.

A razor nicked the soft flesh of her arm, allowing a thin line of red to bead against freckled white.

_I don__'t understand._

_**Just remember to breathe.**_

Like a shockwave to the system, the voice exploded into sound, nonsensical and loud and _vibrating, _and the Giant Squid wasn't floating around her in her watery grave while she attempted to pluck glass fragments from the knuckles of her hand. Instead she was smothered in darkness, beaten in sound, and Ginny could feel the mutilated flesh of her arm pulse in tandem with each rocking boom that echoed above her head. She didn't understand it, but the fierce burn of that filthy disgusting _mark _let her know enough. The fierce spark of hope she hadn't felt in ages—_screams piercing the darkness, matches going wet in her hands, nails chipping against mossy flagstone—_blossomed like a beautiful lily in her chest, spreading its white petals wide to drink up the warmth of the sun.

Only there was no sun where Ginny was concerned, only darkness. Only the perpetual cycle of _fear-hate-despair_ and cackling laughter and tormenting jeers. Her nails were broken from all the times she scrabbled at the light under the door, her mind and eyes used to the thick darkness floating around her and, for the past six hours, no sound from beyond the door. The silence had lulled her into a semi-haze of dark thoughts, and from there, Ginny had started to dream.

She dreamt of everything and nothing, but mostly Hogwarts because Hogwarts was what she remembered best. Because Hogwarts was safety (_but not_) and Hogwarts meant Harry, but Harry hadn't been in Hogwarts, not in a long time. He hadn't been in her mind, either, which was strange, because for the first few weeks, all Ginny could do was fight hopelessly against her captors while she prayed that someone from the Order, that her family or one of her friends or _Harry _would come to rescue her.

No one had.

It hadn't been quick like the first time. The first time had broken her, but Ginny had managed to pick the pieces up and put herself back together. This time she fell apart slowly, painfully, and Ginny felt the rawness of her throat as she struggled to stay in tact, but already her skin was scarred from clawing at the Dark Mark until her forearm was glistening red and wet. Until there was crimson dribbling from behind her fingernails and staining the skin framing her cuticles red.

_Just remember to breathe, _Ginny thought as her mind pulled her from the dark cave of her thoughts, away from the black waters and the opalescent shimmers of something that screamed at her to recognize it. Ginny put her arms out in front of her shakily, rocking to her feet (_feet she hadn't walked on in ages_) stumbling slightly as another booming explosion had her toppling into the wall with a loud groan.

Yelling and shouting filtered down through the silence that enveloped Ginny, and she could hear it—whatever it was—getting closer to her, could tell that whatever was happening above her was not at all what her captors had been expecting. Silence had permeated her musty, damp cell for the last six hours—_can't count the days because the days are too numerous to count—_but the sound of struggle and explosions and _battle _had her heart racing, her adrenaline pumping quickly through her veins.

She didn't want to hope, had taught herself not to hope each time a Death Eater slipped her a pack of wet matches, because no matter what she tried, it was simply a matter of who could break her quicker—no one came, no one listened, and when they did, her sobs of half-insanity were met with vicious laughter and cruel amusement. Ginny was used to that; the grating voices of her enemies had latched onto her thoughts and injected cancer into her mind that ate away at her consciousness like a slow acting poison. She had dealt with it before, had put herself back together, but this time—_this time, _she thought, her hands pressing against the cool stone wall of her prison in an attempt to find the door.

That was all that mattered. _This time _and nothing else. She hadn't been strong enough to escape by herself, but maybe, just maybe…

The screeching sound of stone being split down the middle had Ginny jerking and wincing, stumbling away from the wall as stone pebbles rained down into the small cell. Whatever was wrecking havoc on the fortress was doing a good job—destruction was something Ginny had understood, something she had partaken in plenty of times in the past, but the sudden hope that there was someone—_Harry, _though she tried not to let her hopes soar too high—storming the fortress and destroying the very foundations on which it was built pleased Ginny. Still, there was the off chance that whoever was destroying the place didn't know she was down there, or knew and simply didn't care, and Ginny couldn't imagine what it felt like to have two tons of stone suddenly collapse down on her and she wasn't eager to find out.

Swallowing past the dryness in her throat, she waited until the commotion drifted closer, until the yells were suddenly more understandable—_the girl, the girl! Don't let them get to the girl!—they've taken out the whole northern quarter of the castle—reinforcements have been summoned they'll be here soon—_before letting loose an agonized scream. The sound ripped through the chaos, silencing it momentarily before it started anew; Ginny could hear someone shouting orders to their men, but the moment she tried to focus on the words, her throat gave a spasm and she gasped, sucking cool air into her burning throat. She clutched at it gingerly, sinking to the ground, but she was _so much better than that_. She was hurting and broken and in pain, but there was someone there to rescue her and she couldn't let her chance slip away, not when freedom and clean air and _mumdadfredgeorgeronhermione__**harry **_was so close to becoming reality.

Biting back another spasm of pain, Ginny scuttled away from the wall, certain that whoever was ransacking the castle would be sure to demolish the door to her prison in the best way possible. Her throat still burned, but she had to let them know where she was, and she wasn't going to hold back now. Swallowing wetly, she braced herself against the cool wall, fingers scraping against stone—the burn was getting stronger.

It hardly mattered. Ginny had endured worse pain than this before.

"I—" Ginny started, only to cough in pain. The coughs echoed down into her chest, burned her lungs, caused tears to rise in her eyes, but Ginny pushed it away, focusing on _freedomfamilyfriends._

"I'm in here!" She bellowed loudly. "Please help me, I'm in here! I'm here, I'm here, I'm HERE!"

Her weak hands were suddenly pounding on the wall and the adrenaline was pumping faster and faster and soon there was nothing but the loud cacophony of her fists slapping against the wall and her raw bellow echoing through the silence, even as Death Eaters cursed beyond the wall of her prison—_shut her up, shut her up! We can't let them take her—It's too late, they've already infiltrated the dungeons—WHERE ARE OUR REINFORCEMENTS—Carrow…unconscious…can't do it—_

Ginny heard it before she felt it—the loud boom echoed throughout the air, rattling her teeth and she clamped down fiercely on her tongue, drawing blood as she struggled to remain standing. The walls shook and the stones above her head mutated—loose pieces of stone crashed to the ground and she stumbled away from the wreckage, throwing her hands up to protect her head as stones ricocheted off the ground and into the air. Tremors wracked the fortress, but Ginny kept bellowing, kept ignoring the pain, kept standing despite the way the walls shook and the floor trembled beneath her feet.

An agonized shout sounded from just beyond her door, and she could hear more people erupt into screams—_Crucio, _Ginny thought without preamble, recognizing the wet gurgles of pain emanating from beyond the door, and she crouched against the wall, swallowing past the aching burn in her throat.

The screams ceased for a moment then started up anew; Ginny counted the seconds before she could call out again—_just remember to breathe—_and opened her mouth, ready to call out—

The door was blasted off its hinges.

The dull illumination of the outside caused Ginny's eyes to burn, and she let out a pained moan, slapping her hands to her face. The screams were louder now, though no less understandable—_definitely Crucio, _Ginny thought as heavy boots thudded against the flagstones, nearly drowned out by the screams. For one brief, terrifying moment, Ginny was thrown back to a time where _step step scratch _spelled out uncertain doom, but a cool hand was curling firmly around her bicep and hoisting her effortlessly to her feet.

"Weasley," a low voice murmured, one Ginny recognized but was unable to put a face to. Another hand dropped to her other shoulder, pulling her around, but Ginny was still too terrified to open her eyes, still too caught up in the past to remember that she wasn't there, but here and now. The hands tightened on her shoulder and Ginny felt herself being led away from the wall.

"We only have so much time, Weasley," the voice replied. "Potter can only hold them off for so long."

The burn in Ginny's throat escalated, but for an entirely different reason than pain.

_Just remember to breathe._

Nodding frantically, the bubble of hope in her chest burst, blossoming outwards until it filled Ginny to the brim with warmth because _Harry had come _and _Harry was here _and _it was just like old times. _Except she could have done without the imprisonment and the insanity but _Harry was there _and it was all Ginny could think about, even as she felt the person guiding her suddenly jerk her around and slam something smooth and thin and hot into her wand.

It only took a second for Ginny to recognize the familiar object—_wand, _her mind sing-songed, just as loud _"REDUCTO!"_ echoed through the chaos. Hands slammed into Ginny's back, sending her careening into the floor. Almost instinctively, Ginny curled into a ball, cradling her wand to her chest—_can't lose it, won't lose it, won't __**LOSE**_—just as the tell tale tingle of magic flew over her head, smashing into the wall behind her. Stones came loose, debris littering the hallway, and like clockwork, those same cool hands were gripping her by the elbow and urging her to her feet, trying to hustle her along. Ginny followed without thought, just knowing that she had to get to Harry, to safety, to _freedom, _and she swallowed another painful burn.

"Where should I aim?" Ginny called loudly, wincing as the guiding hands jerked her down towards the ground. She still hadn't opened her eyes.

"Back," was the swift, terse reply.

Ginny wasted no time; she fired indiscriminately.

Spell after spell entered her mind, half-spoken, half-thought. Her throat ached with each spell she said, her mind trembled with each spell she thought—it had been _so long _since she had last used magic, but it flowed from the tip of her wand like water down a waterfall, swift and fast and furious.

Soon, Ginny was being led up stairs, struggling to keep her footing and then down corridors and through doors and then, _finally—_

"Get down!"

Hands shoved Ginny to the ground, and she braced herself, wand clutched tightly in her hand, eyes clenched tightly closed. The cool feeling of the outside air nipping at her skin caused tears to prickle at her eyes, even as a thunderous explosion erupted around her, her ears ringing loudly with each boom. The sound of stone crumbling behind her made Ginny's heart thunder in her chest, but hands were on her once again. Only this time, they weren't the cool, steel grip of her rescuer, but hot and wet and sticky and she recognized those callused fingers, recognized the way they clung to her shoulders tightly, the owner resisting the urge to pull her to that thin, yet sturdy chest. All Ginny could think was _Harry._

"How much time do we have?" Harry asked, voice rough and breathless.

"Two minutes, tops," their other companion said. "Think you can Apparate in that condition, Potter?"

Harry's hands tightened on Ginny's arms, and she could just picture the flash of irritation coloring his face.

"I'll manage."

Ginny shook, her fingers encircling Harry's wrists.

A disgusted snort was all that met Ginny's ears before the rustle of robes and the distinct crack of Apparation had her cringing into Harry. She was still too afraid to open her eyes, too worried that outside wasn't darkness and stars and a beautiful, silver moon, but sunlight and clouds and Ginny didn't think her eyes were ready to adjust to that, not yet.

There was a soft sigh, and strong, gentle arms enveloped her, squeezing her tight.

"Hold on," Harry muttered, and then Ginny knew that there really was darkness, because she was being squeezed so tight her lungs were on _fire _and there was no air, no nothing and—

_Just remember to breathe._

But _I can't breathe what's not there, _except it was, but Harry was Apparating again and the burn in her lungs didn't stop, not even as the silence in the void stretched her thin, pulled her through the awkward, uncomfortable tube that was Apparition.

_Just remember to breathe._

Ginny did.

Because she remembered being saved, too, and in the end, that was all that mattered.

_Thank you, Harry._

_Again._

* * *

_**11:26 a.m.**_

The answer hit Hermione, quite literally, in the back of the head. She had been sitting on her bed, pondering her dilemma over a ham sandwich which she had put together herself (Mrs. Weasley was strangely adamant about not making a single meal for Hermione and the young witch could not fathom why) and was starting to get frustrated when the owl swooped through her window, releasing a package from its talon-grip, allowing it to slam into the back of Hermione's head. And suddenly, though she hadn't been expecting it, she knew that saving Lupin would be so _easy_ because if she could betray Lupin, she could betray Malfoy _too._

_Betray Malfoy._

The sentiment left less of a feeling of guilt and shame on Hermione's tongue and one of triumph—if there was some way she could prove that she wasn't as bad as she was thought to be, some way in which she could prove her allegiance, this was it. What wrong was there in betraying Death Eaters, after all? They were only Death Eaters, were only people Hermione held no emotional connection to and she would much rather Malfoy suffer the consequences of her bad decision than Lupin. Lupin was far too important. He didn't deserve to die.

With that thought resolutely in her mind, Hermione wondered what she could do to betray Malfoy. It couldn't be as simple as just ignoring his summons, because Hermione knew that Malfoy was smarter than that. He didn't make it through his school years and the years after without some form of guile, so Hermione had to be ready to counteract any possible trap he was going to pull her into. If she could think betrayal, than it was entirely feasible to think that Malfoy had prepared for that as well—Hermione knew she had to be on her toes so as not to put herself into a situation that was worse than the one she was currently in.

Licking her lips, Hermione bit into her ham sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. The problem, she thought, rested not on the fact that she didn't know what to do to betray Malfoy, but in the fact that she had no idea what Malfoy had planned to kill Lupin. Not knowing his plans left her making a lot of guess work; while Hermione was quite adept at making huge leaps in logic, guessing or estimating an opponent's options when the options themselves were limitless was not Hermione's strong point. She dealt in facts, in concrete evidence, and the fact that she was pretty much flying by the seat of her pants left Hermione feeling vulnerable and exposed.

She could do it, she knew, but…

"Okay, Hermione, relax," she muttered to herself, setting her sandwich on its napkin and coming to her feet. "Let's start with the facts and see if we can go from there. Fact number one: Malfoy wants Lupin dead. Fact number two: Malfoy wants Lupin dead because Lupin is the Dark Lord's only opposition to gaining complete control over the werewolf sanctuary. Fact number three: Malfoy has the names needed to weasel out those sympathetic to the Ministry and to Dumbledore. Fact number four…"

Hermione paused, her brow furrowing slightly. "Fact number four: Malfoy can only get to Lupin through me. Fact number fi—"

Hermione stopped abruptly, her eyes widening and a horrible gasp erupting from her throat.

_Fact number five, _she thought a bit numbly. _Malfoy will only get Lupin __**because **__of me. Because I'm __**alive.**_

A life for a life, Malfoy had said.

_In exchange for my life, he gets Lupin._

_And in exchange for Lupin, he gets me._

"Of course," Hermione murmured weakly, lowering herself onto the top of her bed. Her knees felt weak as the knowledge of what she could do—of what she _had _to do—filtered into her mind. _Betray Malfoy, _she had thought, _by not giving him Lupin. _But if he didn't get Lupin, that meant that he got her, and the terrifying truth that she was going to die frightened her in ways she couldn't explain. Malfoy was sure to be prepared for this eventuality; prepared for the eventuality that Hermione was going to double-cross him because Lupin was invaluable and although she had lost Lupin's most precious resource, starting from scratch and remembering faces was not something Lupin would have trouble with.

But facing off against Malfoy… Hermione had absolutely no idea what was in store. All she knew was that she would have to wait for his summons… would he give her coordinates? Would he send her a portkey? Would he give her the name of an establishment? The truth was, Hermione had no idea how Malfoy was planning on getting to her… or _when_ Malfoy was planning on getting to her for that matter, and that just made the matter all the more troublesome.

Hermione had thought to ignore it, but banished the thought quickly because if she ignored Malfoy, that meant that Zabini would be at risk—_if one plan fails, always make sure to have another—_and Harry needed Zabini just as much as Hermione did. The Order's current goal—_discover the importance of Inferi, _though Hermione had a inkling she already knew, but it was too horrible to dwell on that possibility so she cast it aside in favor of focusing on the present—rested on what information they were able to dig up and what Zabini was willing to give away. The answers were there, Hermione knew, and with the combined efforts of Zabini and the Order, Hermione knew they could reach it.

Zabini couldn't die. That was not an option.

So what then? What could she possibly do but go with Malfoy's summons if only to save Zabini from death? Still, if she didn't come with Lupin, Malfoy would kill her, pure and simple. If she did come with Lupin… Hermione bit her lip. Malfoy was going to be prepared. Hermione doubted that Malfoy would be ignorant enough to divulge his plan with Zabini, so Hermione was on her own. Malfoy was probably prepared for anything, so—

_I__'ll just have to try and be prepared as well, _Hermione thought, settling back onto her bed. _I may not know what's in store, but this whole war has been about not knowing and… just prepare myself as best as possible._

_Start with the disillusionment charm, shield charm, emergency portkey—_

"But there might be wards up that will disallow the use of a portkey or apparition," Hermione muttered, staring at the wall blankly. "If that's the case, I'll have to have another way to escape…"

"And just where are you planning to go?"

The sudden sound of Lupin's voice had Hermione jerking upwards, her head snapping around to stare at him in a mixture of wide-eyed fear and shock. His eyes were hard—_no change, not yet—_and the lines of his face looked deeper than ever before. It had only been a day since she had last spoken to her old Professor, but the memory that came with Obliviating him scalded like boiling hot water splashing against her skin. Her eyes widened in guilt and her lips began to tremble because—_not this, not now—_but Lupin seemed to always pop up at the most inopportune times and there were only so many times Hermione could get away with getting the best of her former Professor before he finally stopped being so unprepared and got her instead.

Smoothing her palms over the front of her trousers, Hermione offered a shaky smile, unsure of what to say. There was no doubt that Lupin had heard her quiet rambling; trying to chalk it up to something else was not going to go over well with the werewolf, especially since he was already so suspicious of her.

_That__'s what happens when you betray the ones that matter most, _a traitorous voice in her mind whispered, and Hermione's eyes fluttered close in pain. She turned away from her Professor, her hand lingering over her pocket—no way to pull her wand, no way to make him _forget_—_some secrets are worth protecting, _she had told Lupin earlier, but keeping this one seemed so _impossible _now that Lupin was there, now that he had _heard_—

"Nowhere," Hermione managed weakly, keeping her eyes off of him. Now that he was near, now that she could sense his presence in the room, the feeling of being watched lessened—_Tracking Spell, _Hermione thought suddenly, adjusting the loose collar of her shirt, irritated at her oversight, _can't save Lupin if I don't get rid of the Tracking Spell first—_but that hardly mattered because his physical eyes were still trained on her, hard and cold and distant and Hermione wished that she could breach the barrier that now kept them worlds apart from one another.

Lupin laughed harshly. "Somehow I doubt that."

"Well, you can doubt all you want, Remus, it doesn't change the fact that it's true."

_But not._

A stiff silence penetrated the room, and Hermione felt her heart start to thunder in her chest. She was afraid of thinking anything about Malfoy, afraid that if she thought about him, Lupin would pluck the thought straight from her head. His stare set her nerve-endings on fire, and Hermione wished he would just _leave _so that she could save him. How was she supposed to save him if he kept turning up at the wrong moments?

_But I wouldn__'t have to save him if I didn't betray him in the first place, _Hermione thought sickly, brushing her bushy hair out of her eyes. _This is my fault. I'm the only one that can fix it._

And she would_. _Hermione had promised herself that much. She would do whatever she could to fix this situation, do whatever she could to save Lupin's life even if it meant… Hermione's heart thundered viciously in her chest as she thought of what would await her if she went to Malfoy alone, and the thought terrified her. There were so many things she had left to do, so many people that she cared about and loved and the thought of losing them… the thought of dying… she didn't want Malfoy to kill her, but the thought of leaving Zabini or Lupin to their deaths was not appealing either.

There had to be some way, some solution to keeping everyone that mattered alive and saving her own life as well. The solution was there, lodged in the back of her mind, Hermione knew. Now if only she could _find it—_

"You Obliviated me, didn't you?"

Hermione's thoughts came to a screeching halt as she whipped around to stare at Lupin; her eyes were wide and the color had instantly drained from her face, but it was nothing compared to the fear she felt at seeing his expression; hard and cold like stone, but full of so much suspicion, so much distrust, so much _hatred…_

_Too many unknowns, _Hermione thought numbly, her breath coming out in quiet pants. _That's the problem, isn't it? None of us know anything. We always have to seek clarification from others. Harry had been like that once, never in the know, never able to have all the answers and now I—_

"Yes," Hermione whispered, her eyes glazed. She couldn't stand the way he drew further and further away from her.

Lupin's lips curled. "I thought so. I had wondered, but—" He gave a soft, pained laugh. "Why?"

Hermione's heart clenched painfully, and she turned away, her hands clenching into fists. "I thought you didn't make it your business to understand the minds of traitors, Professor."

Lupin didn't respond.

_Now I don__'t even know how to save him. By giving my life, yes, but why does it always have to be that way? Why is it that in order to save one life, I have to sacrifice another? No matter what happens, someone is going to—_

Hermione's heart stopped.

—_**die. **_Hermione pressed her lips together tightly, her eyes glistening with tears she didn't wand to shed. She was tired of crying. _No matter what, someone is going to have to die. If I don't show up, Malfoy will have Zabini killed. If I bring Remus with me, Remus will die. And if I show up alone, I die._

_But only if I allow him to. If I fight back… if I fight back…_

A life for a life. It was as simple as Malfoy had made it out to be, as Hermione knew it could be. All she had to do was fight back, to be prepared. It had been ages since she had properly dueled anybody; the memory of Malfoy's spell catching her unawares in Zabini's study left a bitter taste in her mouth. Malfoy was quicker, faster, but Hermione knew that she had a wider variety of spells in her arsenal. She had book smarts and knowledge and knew which spells effectively combated what. The only difficulty was all the unknown advantages Malfoy would have, the fact that he seemingly had complete control over the situation…

"You are correct," Lupin replied mildly. "I don't go out of my way to understand the mind of a traitor. But I will go out of my way to ensure that said traitor will never double-cross me again."

Hermione smiled thinly. "Hence the Tracking Spell. Quite effective, really."

"Indeed." Lupin paused, his lips pressed into a hard line. "What's in the package, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione blinked, immediately zeroing in on the package that was on her bed. A cold dread swept through her body and curled its sharp talons around her heart. It was too soon. Only two days after she had made the deal with Malfoy and already… Hermione struggled to swallow past the lump in her throat at the thought that Malfoy wanted her then, that very instant. It hurt to think about what would be awaiting her should she open the package—she wouldn't take Remus to Malfoy, no chance, but the fact was that Lupin had seen it, knew that she had a package, and he was already suspicious of her.

Hermione wanted to save him—_have to save him, there's no other choice, even if it means my __**life**__—_because as terrified as she was of dying, she was more frightened of Remus dying. Of seeing Malfoy strike him down like he was nothing more than a pathetic little creature that had no right to live. Hermione would fight with all of her might to protect Remus, but Malfoy was an experienced dueler and try all she might, Hermione didn't think she had the courage to take Malfoy's life. Incapacitate him so that she might get away, yes, but to kill him in cold blood…

Hermione gazed blindly at the package in front of her, her hands tracing over the plain brown paper wrapping. There was just _so much_ at stake…

"I don't know," Hermione whispered truthfully. "For once in my life, I don't have the right answer to this problem."

"Then perhaps I should help you find it," Remus said, striding forward. Hermione's head snapped around and she reached for the package, but it was already flying through the air, into Lupin's outstretched hands.

"_Remus—_" Hermione began breathlessly, only to still as he pinned her with a dark glare.

"Don't," he said warningly, waving his wand over the top of the package. It started to glow a bright yellow hue. _Portkey then, _Hermione thought as Lupin's lips twisted, his dark amber eyes lifting to meet her gaze. She could see the accusation clear as day in his face, knew that her earlier words were starting to make more sense to him, and a cold sense of foreboding began to slither its way down her spine, nestling painfully in the pit of her stomach.

"No, Professor, you don't understand—"

"I understand well enough to know that you were planning on disappearing," he cut in seamlessly. "Again. Which is quite interesting, considering you told Professor Dumbledore that you were not going to leave under any circumstances, and yet…" Lupin eyed the package distastefully. "Here we are. A portkey to undisclosed location in the hands of a girl whose allegiances are questionable at best, if not already known."

"I didn't—" Hermione started, only to cut herself off. "Remus, _please_."

His eyes hardened.

"Where does it lead to?"

"I don't know."

"Where does it lead to, Ms. Granger?"

"I don't_ know,_" Hermione despaired, shaking her head frantically.

Remus remained silent, unmoved by Hermione's mounting hysteria. The lines in his face had softened, but Hermione could still see the stone expression, the sting of betrayal lingering in his liquid amber eyes. If only she could _get the package away from him—_

_I have to save him._

Her fingers ghosted over the pocket of her jeans, and Hermione turned away from him. Her wand thrummed beneath her fingers, heat emanating through the fabric. She knew he was watching her every movement, knew that she would have to be quick—Obliviating Remus was completely out of the question, especially now that he knew she had done it once before—but Hermione knew that she could do it, knew all it would take was one small motion and her wand would be free…

"I would reconsider your actions if I were you, Ms. Granger," Remus said coldly. "Attacking me will not benefit you in the long run."

Hermione smiled grimly, but palmed her wand loosely, relishing in the subtle warmth that flowed through her fingers. She turned, wand tip pointed towards the ground. Remus was stiff, his wand aimed right at her chest—_just like Malfoy—_and Hermione knew she wouldn't be able to be quick enough, not then, not when Lupin was already so _prepared—_

"Are you going to fight me, Remus?" Hermione questioned shakily, eyes trained dutifully on the package in his arm.

"Should it be deemed necessary."

Hermione nodded numbly, adjusting the point of her wand slightly. If she was careful enough, if she was quick enough… all it would take was one shot—

"_Petrificus—"_

"_Protego!" _Lupin snapped, and the beam of light from Hermione's spell ricocheted off the filmy blue shield. Hermione winced, ducking to the floor, another spell on the tip of her tongue—_"Impedimenta!"_—but Lupin was quicker and faster and had years to practice—"_Protego. Impedimenta."_—and Hermione felt his spell slam into her side, sending her crashing into her bed. Hermione groaned, rolling to her feet, but without warning, her legs snapped together, sending her propelling into the ground. The counter curse was instantaneous—_Finite—_but the moment her legs came unglued, a stinging hex flashed across her skin, scalding and aching and—

"_Incendio!"_

A jet of flames licked the spot where Lupin had been standing, and Hermione saw as his eyes flash dark—_Protego—_she thought, just as he shot another hex her way—she _had_ to get that package, no matter what…

The flames danced across the floor, creeping towards the doorway, but Hermione didn't focus on that, instead aiming her wand at Lupin and thinking a swift—_Levicorpus!—_that was blocked the minute Lupin jerked his wand, the filmy blue of a shield spell flaring to life around him.

They both paused.

"_Aguamenti,"_ Lupin said calmly, a stream of water dousing the creeping flames instantaneously. Hermione's eyes widened in guilt—the floor was charred a deep black, and she knew that if they hadn't paused, if Lupin hadn't been in the frame of mind to eliminate the fire then the floor could have collapsed…

"You seem very intent, Ms. Granger. That's the second time since you've returned that you have attacked me without cause." Lupin paused audibly. "Or perhaps, not without cause. Where does the Portkey lead to?"

The wand in Hermione's hand twitched, but Lupin tracked the movement darkly. His expression was still as stone, as Hermione had expected it to be, but her emotions were not. Everything was turning out to be twice as difficult as it was meant to be; Hermione knew better than to throw herself into self-recriminations now. It was too late for that. Hating the fact that she hadn't gotten to the package before Lupin had entered her room was something that she couldn't dwell on. Yes, he had more reason than ever before not to trust her, but getting the Portkey away from him, ensuring his safety was now more important than anything.

For herself, and for Harry.

Hermione was not above admitting that, at least.

_At least I know he won't touch it, not when he doesn't know where it leads to. He's smarter than that._

Licking her lips, she stood slowly, so as not to arouse an attack from Lupin. Knowing that he was intelligent enough not to directly touch the Portkey still did not evoke any feelings of relief in Hermione. Lupin could very well take the Portkey away and that would cause more problems than harm. Hermione truly did not know everything that Malfoy had prepared-did not know if there were different ways of activating a Portkey that Malfoy had employed, if simply being in its presence was enough-

_I'm jumping to conclusions now, _Hermione chastised herself bitterly. _Portkeys don't work that way. They can be keyed in to activate when a specific person touches them, or a certain phrase is uttered, or simply by touch, but being near someone is not nearly enough. I'm smarter than this. I need to calm down._

Calm down and think. Reevaluate everything that was happening. It was simply foolish, Hermione thought, of her to lose complete control. Lupin was in complete control and he was winning. If she did not maintain some modicum of logic then there was absolutely no way she was going to be able to save him. Letting him get away with the Portkey wasn't a good idea because she didn't know what else Malfoy had in store, but also because there was a definite chance that she would completely lose what little face she had left in the Order. She _had_ to stay in the Order. Had to know what secrets Dumbledore was keeping from her just as he had to know what secrets she was keeping from him.

_Even if some secrets are worth protecting, _Hermione thought as she regarded Lupin slowly. _I have to stay. And that might mean giving up some secrets as well. _

"I don't know," Hermione responded, more calmly and collected than before. "But I need it."

Lupin's expression hardened. "To escape."

Hermione gave a watery smile. "Yes. To escape." Lupin's lips tightened. "Because I want to save you."

Hermione knew the moment the memory charm burst in Lupin's mind because his eyes grew hazy and his body twitched with the sudden painful influx of memory. A thrill of anticipation struck through her with a fearsome determination and Hermione knew that now was her chance, above all else, to secure the package from Lupin, while the forgotten memory played over in his mind and stole him away from full consciousness. Lifting her wand with rapid, precise movements, the words burst out of Hermione's mouth without thought, echoing into the tense silence that encased former professor and student in its chilly embrace.

"_Accio Portkey!_"

A sharp growl of anger burst from Lupin's lips the moment the spell was uttered and his wand cut through the air in a harsh stroke; the package slipped just beyond the tips of his fingers and Hermione stumbled forward, outstretching her hand as the package raced through the air towards her, barely missing getting caught behind the strength of Lupin's shield. Another movement and another spell went flying through the air, hitting the package with the force of a predator sinking its claws into its prey; cardboard exploded into hundreds of thin brown shreds at the force of Hermione's spell, freeing the Portkey from its small package and-

_Oh, _Hermione thought, her body erupting into stillness as she saw what, exactly, Malfoy had sent to her. The action was cruel beyond words, and the choking anger had Hermione faltering, nearly leaping out of the way as the Portkey settled into her outstretched hand. Agony and revulsion and _betrayal_ like nothing Hermione had ever felt before had her heaving a dry sob, because she knew that Lupin would see the journal-_his journal, _Hermione thought with a spasm of pain-that she had given up to secure Ron.

And he would know. He would know why Hermione would want to save him. Why she was trying so desperately to escape.

A vicious snarl erupted into the air and with a swiftness that Hermione never would have expected, Lupin barreled forward, ready to snatch the journal from her fingers, to tear it and her to shreds because she had ruined _everything_-

Like a string of barbed wire hooking around Hermione's navel, the Portkey _pulled_ and-

Horror coursed through Hermione as the world disappeared in a swirl of nauseating colors, Lupin's hands locked tightly around her wrists like indestructible manacles of titanium.


	9. Chapter 7

**Title: **Speak Softly (7/?)

**Summary: **As the war escalates to dangerous new heights, Harry, Ron, and Hermione find themselves getting drawn deeper into a battle where the lines between right and wrong aren't as clear-cut as they would imagine.

**Pairings: **Ron/Hermione, Hermione/Harry, Harry/Ginny

**Genre: **angst, drama, tragedy, horror, romance, post-Hogwarts, pre-HBP, pre-DH, with elements of both books thrown in.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**Warnings: **violence, blood, some sexual imagery, slight mental breakdown, and *SPOILER* oh, yeah, _character death_. Only the people dying thing? _So _canon_. _Eh, sort of. XD

**A/N: **Thanks so much to those who reviewed this story or put it on their alerts or favorites list. I really do appreciate it. I had quite a tough time writing this chapter, because, you know, PLOT. Ew. Who needs that? But I've so been looking forward to this chapter because of the ending. This has been in the works since chapter ONE, people. I've had it written for that long, certainly. That said, we're getting closer to the end, folks. If I can fit things the way they're supposed to fit, then there's only, GASP, FOUR CHAPTERS LEFT. Here's to hoping I can get them written without taking a year for each chapter like I nearly did this one. I was only shy by, like, a MONTH.

…

_**12:36 p.m.**_

Sterility. Like—white-hot-blinding and so different because once—well. Darkness. Step, step, _scratch. _Fire burned into her skin—agony, something she was used to. But.

_**Just remember to breathe.**_

She wasn't trapped beneath the water anymore. Pressure was understandable. Her mental state? Flimsy at best. People cried—_mum_—but there was _darkness. _And then—

White. Hot, blinding, _sterile_ white. The only thing she could _see-touch-taste-smell-hear_ because it was so different from the darkness that her throat seized up and she had to think that there was once less than this, less than the sterility that shouldn't be there because of the darkness_. _That was all she had come to know.

Silly that she had nearly forgotten her name. Silly that she had almost lost it in the whiteness. The crying was simply background noise.

"Ginny."

But there were people there to help her remember. People she _could not forget_ and with the sudden sharp clarity of existence beyond the white, beyond the yin-yang of light and dark, Ginny remembered Harry.

He had saved her.

Turning away from the white walls, white sheets, white _everything_, Ginny marveled at the sight before her. Dirty skin, slicked with blood. Emerald green eyes, hidden beneath round glasses, the overhead lights coating the lenses with the sheen of reflective opalescence. Dark hair, hanging limply over a scar that had defined him in ways he had not wanted but accepted, because what else was there? Situations kept cropping up—or, rather, were being _made_ to crop up, because obsession had rotted the inside of the Dark Lord's mind as effortlessly as the Dark Arts and the quiet promise of _power-reign-immortality_ had.

Ginny's nail scraped across the rim of the glass. Harry watched her silently.

Then, "_Ginny._"

"Those Healers work wonders, don't they?" Ginny asked absently, voice deep and grating like the aching scratchiness of her throat. It was a shame re-learning how to scream wasn't as bad as Ginny thought it would be. "For a while, I wasn't sure I'd be able to _see_ again."

Ginny tilted her head, and freshly washed red hair spilled over her shoulder. Harry frowned, settling back into the chair he had commandeered. Ginny was vaguely aware of others milling about outside of her room. The monotony—or was it shock?—of white sterility had nearly made her forget she had a mother and a father and brothers—_(and some wicked thought in the back of her mind had to scream at her that there was something missing, or rather someone, but it was so hard to reconcile that thought with Harry's presence because Harry was always there, even if he wasn't needed… There was never a time when he __**wasn't**__)_—but Ginny could clearly remember being held in her mother's bone-crushing embrace. The fierce relief and dimming sense of _I-should-have-protected-her-she-was-mine-to-protect-my-daughter-my-Ginny_ emanating from her father's rigid posture and tightly clenched jaw. The brutal, vicious fury that sparked waves of _hatred-destruction-__**revenge**_ in Fred and George's minds when they slipped fingers around her wrist and felt the thick, corded development of scar tissue and the black-black-black of the Dark Mark.

Molly had allowed the two of them their privacy with minimal fuss. Sure, the Healers mumbled something about _post-traumatic stress disorder_ and keeping Ginny in a controlled environment and _safe_ but Harry was safety and security and if a controlled environment meant the white-white walls, then she would take the chaotic thunder of _**Just remember to breathe**_ any day.

Harry was less than impressed.

"Ginny. That's not helping."

Neither was the way he kept saying her name; some mix of desperate longing and frustration. The rage that had kept his muscles locked stiffly around her had slowly diminished as the day continued on. Ginny imagined he was tired, weary. But as much as she may have wanted to throw her arms around him, relish in that feeling of constant security, there were really too many things to think about. Like forgetting. Because the darkness was just… unbearable. Ginny didn't want that in her head anymore. The razor blades. The little creatures crawling across her flesh. The step-step-scratch and constant pressure of water bearing down on her from all sides because _that was where she had died; _only she wasn't dead.

_I am a smart and intelligent girl. _Ginny snorted inwardly. _Right. _

"I don't want to talk about it," Ginny said a moment later. The white on the walls screamed something at her that Ginny did her best to ignore. "What else is there to learn anyways? It was just the same as before."

Harry's hands curled into fists. Ginny imagined there was a monster inside of him, raging. Besides, even if it raged for her, it wasn't like she could claim it. There was always—

"Where's Hermione?"

Harry's eyes flashed and he scowled bitterly.

"I don't know," he said dourly. "No one wants to _tell me anything_."

"Don't talk to me like that," Ginny said sharply, eyes narrowing at the tone in Harry's voice. "And I'm not telling you, not because it's important, but because there's nothing to _say_. It was exactly like last time, only this time Voldemort _marked_ me."

"And I understand all about markings, don't I?" Harry snarled, rising to his feet. Blood was still caked on his face and his side—Ginny vaguely remembered the Healers ripping them apart and casting a plethora of spells on the both of them, despite Harry's protests that he was _fine. _None of them were fine. The white-white of the walls were too distracting to be _fine._

(_Post-traumatic stress disorder, _a Healer said, but the fierce wail of denial kept Ginny's thoughts locked down like a high-security prison.)

"We're both connected, Ginny. To _him._ He Marked you. Who knows what else could have happened if I hadn't—"

"Thank you, Harry," Ginny interrupted firmly, lifting her chin and staring him down fiercely. "I… owe you. But you have to understand that I don't want to talk about this and despite all that I am indebted to you, _you owe me, too._"

There was a long moment of silence. Harry opened his mouth, prepared to object, but Ginny's resolve was settling into stone and nothing could break it, not even Harry's iron will. Scowling faintly, Harry turned away from her and strode over to the other side of the room. The outside world filtered into the anger charged silence, and for a moment, Ginny wished that her mother hadn't had decided to leave the two to themselves. Molly would have kept Harry from asking any penetrating questions; she would have protected her daughter with a determination that could kill, that _would_ kill, if anyone or anything threatened Ginny's peace. Or what little there was.

(A dead turtle slid across the floor.)

"You should look for Hermione," Ginny suggested after a long moment of silence. "I'm sure she misses you."

Harry sighed, the hard lines of his shoulders softening.

"Yeah," he said tiredly, and there was a fondness in his voice which Ginny ignored. "But no one knows where she is."

Ginny frowned. "Then where—"

"I think she's safe, though," Harry said quietly, his hand straying up to grip the chain hanging from his neck. "I would have felt it if she… she's safe." Harry paused and then faced her. His expression was dangerously serious.

"No one's talking about it, Ginny. Not your mum or dad or Tonks or anyone. I haven't seen Dumbledore yet, but I have a feeling he won't tell me anything either. Something is going on and we have to find out what."

Ginny shrugged, the white-white of the walls catching her eye again. It was so different from the darkness.

"I can ask questions. Mum isn't likely to deny me anything considering… well. I'll try." She hesitated audibly, taking a moment to eye Harry critically. The question lodged itself in her throat before she even had a chance to wonder at the implications of it—flashes of stone crumbling around her, hands guiding her in the right direction as she stumbled through the darkness, spells flying overhead, Death Eaters calling for reinforcements…

Harry was covered in blood. Old, dry, crusted blood, but it was blood nonetheless. Ginny's stomach churned unpleasantly. Her eyes shifted from the white-white to the white-pink-black on her arm; scar tissue was raised up on the skin, spider-webbing across her forearm in a horrific display of mutilation. Looking at the mark on her arm—deformed, partially destroyed, but still serving its _function_—was enough to make bile rise in Ginny's injured throat and her eyes to start watering. The action itched, reminding Ginny of the pebbles of dirt that had kissed her skin, some harder than others, as she ran through the halls of the citadel, wrist held in an ice-cold grip that lacked Harry's warmth and gentleness.

Rage burned in Ginny's heart, cold-hot-cold.

"You're such a hero," Ginny said bitterly without knowing why. "You didn't have to leave her to save me, you know. I could have gotten away eventually."

Harry stared at her hard. Green eyes erupted, fury kindling the explosion building in his chest. Hateful words shot through him like a poison tipped arrow, but Ginny could see him slowly reining the monster in, could see the vein in his neck shifting, bulging with the sudden thundering of his blood in his arteries.

The words hung above them both, cancerous and rotting. _Such a hero, _Ginny thought, something warm and different from her bitter words blossoming in her chest. She didn't need a hero. (_Harry was one, anyways._) Yet, he acted like one, for her. Left Hermione—_Hermione, his fiancée_—to find her. To keep her away from the Dark Lord. To keep her away from that all encompassing darkness that pierced through her mind and made her nails chip off and wet strips of mutilated flesh get caught on the tips of her fingers. A hero, who wanted to save her from her demons, even now. Wanted to know, so he could keep her from breaking. So he could _understand._

Ginny hadn't been safe. Was that the only difference? If it had been Hermione captured by Death Eaters, being mentally tortured—_**just remember to breathe**_—would Harry have gone after her with the same intensity? Order members weren't talking, but Ginny was quite used to this behavior. Secrets seemed to be the foundation of everything wizardry was built on; witches and wizards lived their entire existence cloaked in the veil of the non-existent, in the realm of fancy. Just the whimsical thoughts of Muggles, just moments of make-believe splattered across a page.

But Harry had been real. There was nothing make-believe about the arms that held her close as they Apparated away, nor in the harsh, labored breathing that spilled out past chapped lips as blood flowed from and clotted the large wound on his side. There was nothing false in the fact that Harry had stormed a whole castle, complete with wizardly protections and enchantments _just to find her. _Despite the nightmares, despite the constant pressure and _water-ice-shardsofglass_ that rained down and dug trenches in her mind. Harry had taken her away from the darkness, brought her back to the white-white-white that bothered her to the point of distraction and—_why? _Why did one person matter so much, when there were other people who were more important? Why had Harry chosen to go after Ginny and not, well, Ron? (_A vicious coil of guilt pooled in her stomach then, because Ginny suddenly understood the hot sensation of that 'someone missing' and it made her sick to think she was too blind to realize it before. It was what had gotten her captured in the first place._)

They were best friends after all. There was nothing that could compare to that friendship, nothing that could come between them—

Except for Hermione.

She was missing.

Ginny wasn't sure whether to be bitter that she was gone (_always hurting the people that mattered most_) or bitter that she wasn't being rescued. Hermione had always been strong, Ginny supposed. Ginny couldn't help but wonder where her own strength had gone.

(_Because Harry was always rescuing people, even when it wasn't needed._

_**She would have gotten out eventually.**_)

The moment continued to stretch on, and then—

—_**just remember to**_—

"Hermione loves two people," Harry said with all the conviction of a heavy, fiery passion that could not be diminished. "Why can't I?"

—_**breathe.**_

…

_There was a scarf around her neck._

_He eyed her critically, watching as the slushy flakes of snow floated down on the currents of wind, pressing against cheeks rosy with cold and melting, sliding down skin like tear drops. Fitting, he supposed, considering it was all she had left in her—her brown eyes were absent, vacant. Or, rather, missing the integral part of her that made everything just…_

_She turned. Snow caught in the tangles of her bushy hair; the slight breeze blowing the snowflakes askew caught the russet strands in an uplift, but the magic was gone. His heart didn't wrench painfully at the sight of her, his breath didn't shorten—where had the magic gone? He remembered touching her skin and igniting fires; he remembered pressing hot kisses against her wet mouth, nimble fingers fumbling for purchase, twisting in clothes. He remembered the soft curve of her hips against his own and the swell of her breasts pressed against his chest. He remembered the heaviness of his testicles as he sunk balls-deep into her because __**Merlin**__ there was no one more perfect than her, and when he ejaculated inside of her, there was nothing more important than the__** here-now-her. **__The__ Her-that-was-his-own._

_(It was gone, now.)_

_Her eyes were glassy as she stared at him, hands stuffed into bulky mittens. The scarf was twisted tightly around her, hiding the lower part of her face—two, bright Gryffindor-red ends brushed against a murky brown pea coat, the only hint of color in an otherwise too white environment._

_(He remembered darkness, once. It scared him.)_

"_Ron," she said numbly, a wet puff of warm breath condensing in the air. "Ron."_

_He watched her for a moment longer, indecision keeping him rooted to the spot. Something whispered in his ear, something important—_you will be delivered through the darkness, in pieces—_but he batted it away, that strange feeling of want struggling to reach up and take control. To make him stride forward and kiss the cold away. _

_His toes tingled in his boots. _

"_Oh, _Ron," _Hermione whispered again. "What have we done?"_

_He frowned, her words shooting through his brain like a swarm of bees caught in the cottony web of a Muffliato spell. He opened his mouth, cleared his scratchy throat, ready to question—_

_Except he didn't. He never _liked _questions. They were… the questions were…_

_Pain throbbed behind his eyes, and Ron lifted his hands to assert pressure. The whisper of ice cold water lapping against his legs startled him, but the pressure of his numb hands was enough to ignore it. Something tugged, pulled, but there was nothing more important than __**her**__ and—__**what have we done?**_

_(Killing people is silly, someone whispered, the essence of air._

_**There were tomatoes in her hair.**__)_

_His tongue remained glued to the top of his mouth. It tasted of chocolate._

_Suddenly, Hermione stumbled forward, feet catching on two rusted manacles around her ankles. She crumpled to the ground, wet slush flinging up in the air; it was dirty, like mud. There was none of the precious white powder that caught in her eyelashes or fluttered breezily against her skin, fairy light. Her pants soaked up the wet, her eyes filming over with the sheen of tears. _

"_Oh bother," she said, trembling slightly. "I don't—honestly, Ron, this is getting ridiculous. I can't… I thought we were strong enough but we can't—what have we __**done**__?"_

_**Nothing**__, he wanted to say, but the chocolate lull of forgetfulness made his brain fuzzy. The snowflakes were still spiraling down, chilling their clothes. A lake flashed before his eyes (__**he wondered what it meant to drown in ice. There was never any freedom.**__) and without a thought, Ron moved forward, kneeling down beside her. She didn't say anything, just pressed her head to his shoulder—and there was no heat. _

"_I miss you, Ron," she said softly. "We're hurting Harry." A silver glint caught his eye, and he reached forward, fingers trailing the swell of her small breasts until it came into contact with a chain that was hot-cold-hot and there-not-there all at once. His finger dipped into the center of the ring, felt the slight pulse of the magic sizzle along his nerves._

_His mouth was thick with chocolate._

"_We're lucky," Hermione mumbled, turning her gaze to the dark craggy overhang above. Water dripped from stalactites, rippling against the calm waves of white snow. "It's not as cold here. But—Ron, we need to fix what was broken. __**You're**__ broken. Like a watch. Only less mechanical."_

_There was a pause._

"_I think thestrals know how to fly."_

"_Well, of course they do, silly," another voice chimed in, breathy air. Ron turned, his eyes catching a glimpse of glimmering, kaleidoscopic glasses shimmering in the fading light. Long, stringy blond hair tumbled down the speaker's back and a whir of buzzing creatures floated around her head. Her necklace was made of Butterbeer bottle caps. "They're the only things that __**can**__."_

"_But what do we __**do **__about it?" Hermione asked impatiently and Ron vaguely noticed the manacles tightening around her ankles. The tip of her sneaker streaked through slushy mud, one foot caught in the grave._

"_Why nothing, of course," the blond girl responded, and for a moment, she looked like she had moons in her eyes—(__**Loony Luna Lovegood, **__a voice whispered and he suddenly remembered that she __**died as well as any girl should)—**__but the image faded, and she continued speaking, a dreamy quality sliding through the air like hot maple syrup. "For they have the wings, so they get to fly."_

"_I got to live, while you got to die," Hermione sang back. Blood started to coat the manacles a thick scarlet. Hermione hardly noticed._

"_In a manner of speaking," Luna replied, gliding forward. "But I am a Dementor and Ron is a Squib."_

"_No, no, no," Hermione huffed. "__**Honestly. **__He's a Gryffindor, Luna. __**Gryffindor. **__Like the mythical creature. Always rushing headlong into danger—he's broken, you know. Like a watch. Only not so mechanical."_

"_Crumple Horned Snorkacks, maybe. Wrackspurts, rather," Luna said serenely. "Or Inferi. They're only skin and partially manufactured souls—speaking of souls, how do you manufacture a soul, Cleverest-Witch-Of-Her-Age?"_

_Hermione frowned, pulling her knees to her chest. A strange euphoria not unlike dismay clotted Ron's heart as he watched the blood from her ankles spill, staining the snow crimson. This was not supposed to happen._

_Still. Chocolate._

"_I don't know, but Dementors __**eat**__ them. Munch, munch. Munch, munch. Oh, yum." Hermione rolled her eyes. "Despicable creatures, Dementors. Inferi, too."_

"_Well that's hardly fair," Luna pointed out, twirling on the tips of her toes. "Dementors and Inferi can't help who they are. There's just something inside of them that's partially… absent." Luna nodded resolutely, as though she enjoyed the word. "Yes, absent. Like my sanity. Or your ingenuity. You've been rather Un-Clever as of late, Cleverest-Witch-Of-Her-Age."_

_Hermione's eyes narrowed into slits and she turned her back on Luna with a vicious huff. Her lips were pressed into a firm line, and Ron could see the fire sparking in her eyes. The snow surrounding them began to melt with her heat, and suddenly, a lake was forming around them, lapping at their skin and clothes. _

"_Oh, what a splendid event!" Luna cried, kicking up water. She splashed Hermione, who looked liked something of a drowned rat with a bright red scarf wrapped around her neck. Everything was muddy brown, like her eyes._

"_I have something for such an occasion," Hermione replied, dipping chilled fingers into the pocket of her coat. She pulled out a small silver flask—something occurred to Ron, which was odd, because she seemed everything but moody, yet the thought was there. Like the fuzziness in his head. _

_He couldn't remember wanting her anymore._

_(There was darkness.)_

"_Oh, you shouldn't drink alcohol," Luna said disapprovingly. "It can kill."_

"_Killing people is silly," Hermione agreed. "But—hark! A Griffin! Brave, strong and true, able to stand up and look death in the face and spit in the eye of immortality. Inferior we are not! This firewhiskey shall hasten the call! To arms!"_

_Luna giggled dreamily as Hermione pressed the flask to her lips, taking a generous gulp. Her chest heaved and Ron reached out his hands to touch her. Luna flitted forward, slapping his hands away, but Ron glared at her, remembering blood and tomatoes and __**death**__ and—_

_Dark silt and sand ran through his fingers._

_Hermione and Luna seemed unaware. Ron watched with probing eyes as the cavern converted, completely. The soft whisper of water against the shore, milky white shadows drifted aimlessly under the gray crested ripples. Ron felt frozen, saw a shadow trail wand-magic across the surface._

"_This is just like old times!" Luna crowed, spinning in a circle and snatching the flask from Hermione in the process. "Here, Great Lion of Gryffindor, King of the Jungle, have a taste. The Dementors won't mind; they've been waiting for you."_

_The flask felt heavy and numb in his fingers. Ron stared at it, wondering if it would push past the chocolate haze that kept his tongue glued to his mouth—uncertain. Maybe if he had a tea cup. But he liked the cool green-glass that he held by the neck… five or six or seven a day. Seven pieces. Seven fragments. How much did it take to see the whole? Moments, long ones, trapped in the horrible grip of pain and death and a whispered cry of Morsmordre. In casting a spell that sent fear arcing into the sky, a wispy green, like the bottle, tattooing the sky like the one on his arm._

_The snake slithered up his bicep and tickled its tongue in his ear._

_(He remembered the darkness.)_

"_Ron shouldn't drink," Hermione said quietly, leaning forward to peer into his eyes. "He's all chocolate now. Let's not break that."_

_Luna hummed softly. "Better chocolate than skin and partially there souls, correct? He's already broken, Cleverest-Witch-Of-Her-Age." Luna turned from the two of them and gazed out at the water. "We'll have to find the rest."_

_A breath caught in Hermione's throat and she reached forward, fingers skimming the flask. Freckles winked at her from Ron's skin, but the hissing hadn't stopped; poison, death, words of rotting infection were seeping into one ear and out the other—Ron tried to grasp onto them, but the harder he tried to recall the words, the faster they slipped away. It was like trying to trap smoke in his hands. Or Hermione. Hermione always ran away from him._

_(He had forgotten how to love her.)_

"_We'll need his help, won't we?" Hermione bit her lip, troubled. "Oh, Loony Luna Lovegood. Why is it that we hurt whenever we wade into the water?"_

_Luna smiled softly. "You hurt because you're whole. Rather, you were, at first. But now… someone took a piece of you and spirited it away. Rather silly, to lose part of yourself so _quickly. _And sad. I liked the whole Hermione. Not the one that was—well, at any rate, it hurt because you were whole. That's what Charon is for. You remember him, don't you?"_

"_Yeah," Hermione whispered, and Ron felt her curl into him. Her trousers were stained scarlet. "Should I let him?"_

"_He'll remember," Luna warned. "That doesn't mean he'll be there. Present. He's still just so…"_

"_Absent."_

"_Absent," Luna agreed, liking the word._

_Ron didn't care. His mouth tasted of chocolate._

"_Right," Hermione said. "I don't… quite know… the right answer. But if it means you'll remember…"_

_She reached out and tipped the flask against his lips._

_Suddenly—_

_(He remembered._

_They called it the Dark Mark.)_

—whispers of thought stretched down, looped around his limbs. The thought came to him then that he shouldn't _have_ limbs—

The fluidity of water. It caught him on the upsurge, each tiny breath escaping him in a puff of moisture—that was his consistency. It was never more or less, it just was, and he felt the cold seep down-down-down until it settled in his bones. He felt… foggy. The sensation crept through the darkness, but there was no panic. Simply… resignation. Was he supposed to feel different? Maybe. But he had seen darkness, hadn't he? Or, rather, not darkness, but _evil_ and when had there ever been such clear cut categorical definitions for such a word?

Extending his mind outward had been easy. It trickled down and out like water, stretching through the fog, remaining encased within it. There was no clear direction, but with a small stab of pain, he could feel _everything—_hands, eyes, fingers, legs, arms, chest, toes, _heart—_

People were talking over him. Maybe about him. It hardly mattered. What would have made him so important to speak about? He was just a thing existing on the cusp of other people's success, stealing their glory.

(_You're not Percy—)_

No. He wasn't. That name was… fire. Inside. Anger. Self-resentment. It made the fluidity within him crash harder, more violently. There was someone who was supposed to be cupped in his fingers, all warm flesh and soft curves and he _knew_ it, but he didn't know. The person who told him that he _wasn't_—anything. Everything. All things. But he wasn't all-encompassing. The haze still clung to his mind, sticky and sure. Poison, maybe, whispering deadly thoughts into his head. He wasn't—wasn't, wasn't, _wasn't._ In everything. Nothing. Fluidity. Catch break _catch—_

He felt.

…something. On his… arm. Like, slithering. Up, up, up. It did not match the fluidity within him, was not the calm-violence-calm of the storm that had erupted in his chest and played out like liquid silver in his mind. Maybe it was the monster, the most basic categorical definition of evil. Maybe it was more. But the fog was just _there_ and he wanted it to go away.

Only who was—

"He's not responding to any kind of stimuli, physical or magical, Albus," a vaguely concerned voice said. "I'm afraid that whatever the Dark Lord did to him—well, I'd rather not think about it all the same."

"Regardless, Poppy, it is important that we awaken Mr. Weasley," the second voice said, male. "I find that only he may illuminate the secrets that have been trapped in shadow and continue to elude us so masterfully."

"Of course," the first—Poppy?—responded. "But I must say I cannot determine when he will wake up. He appears to be in a state of complete catatonia; there is a severe rigidity of his muscles and—"

Except he wasn't. Something flashed across his mind, like a vacant whisper lost on the edge of thought.

_Absent._

He was—_absent._ But thinking. About—well, absence. Of mind. Body. _Sou—_no. Not that. But still. Absence fit, tasted good on a tongue that had yet to speak it. An almost-memory that felt more like a dream caught him in another violent upsurge of storm, and he examined it, hoping that there was _something_—

_Oh Ron, _the Her-that-was-his-own moaned, _what have we done?_

Suddenly—

—he remembered.

There was a tattoo on his arm.

They called it the Dark Mark.

(_He would **never** be a Death Eater._)

The world was supposed to end. As it was—

—the fog lingered. Thickened.

Ron lost himself.

Again.

…

_**12:58 p.m.**_

Malfoy's eyes gleamed silver.

Not entirely unusual, considering Blaise had seen the changes in Malfoy occur numerous times before. It was always when Malfoy had succeeded at something, always when triumph was singing in his mind and causing the adrenaline to pump through his veins because he had finally bested his enemy. Or whichever obstacle was being presented to him at the time. Generally, it had been Potter. However Potter wasn't around to best, because he was off helping the Weaslette. Stupid, really, because having Potter around—well. Blaise would not be dealing with this now. He wouldn't feel his chest tighten oddly because Granger—stupid, pathetic mudblood _Granger_—was collapsed on the floor of a dank cell, bushy tangled hair spread out around her head like a halo. Only the brown bled into the dark cobbles beneath her body and her wrists were blossoming with deep purple bruises, the broken blood vessels fanning out and curling into beautifully dark displays beneath her skin. Blaise wasn't quite sure what to do about that.

Drugging Malfoy the night before had been easy. Helping Potter retrieve his Weasley… Blaise had done better, less stupid things in his life. The very thought of breaking protocol and assisting Potter in taking down _his own allies _made Blaise's palms moisten unpleasantly and sweat trickle down the sharp angles of his dark face. Someone would be saying something. The Dark Lord would find out sooner rather than later—losing Weasley, both of them, would not be something he would handle well. They were so important, so _needed_… but as long as Ron was coherent and cognizant of the role he had to play, then all the better. Sure, after the last partial he pulled from… that place… had been deposited into the skin-shell that was brutally reconstructed from _Seamus Finnigan_ (_another violent twist and suddenly, Blaise wasn't sure he knew how to __**breathe**__) _Weasley had fallen back into that half-there state of mentality. _Catatonic_, some would say. And who was he to refute them? But the simple fact that Granger had gotten Weasley back would be enough to—well, Blaise wasn't sure, but surely if they could pull Weasley out of that catatonia, the Light would finally begin to understand.

Understanding was pivotal, if they wanted to win the war.

And Granger had always been clever. Despite the violent twist of her limbs and a throat screamed raw because—_tit for tat—_Potter had betrayed him, Granger had understood. Blaise would not hurt her irrevocably. She was important, her life was important and Blaise… he had promised to protect her. To keep her safe. Potter had given him the other third of the spelled ring, ensuring that even he would know when Granger was in trouble, but Blaise had refused to wear it at first. Then Potter had told him that it was an effective communications device as well and… Blaise wanted to get out of their deal and quickly. He did not want anything tying him to Potter because even if Potter had a good chance of winning the war, so did the Dark Lord.

Truthfully, the Dark Lord had more years and experience on his side than Potter did, more pure, undiluted _power_ and he knew how to use that power in ways that Potter couldn't even comprehend. Even so, Potter had still managed to… Blaise glowered, the sharp tang of bitterness curling his tongue. Despite his lack of experience, Potter still managed to get a debt out of Blaise. Forcing himself to believe it had occurred under the guise of payment had been ridiculous and naïve. Blaise had never been one to deny the truth when it had been staring him in the face, and yet he had in the beginning. Payment, especially in large sums, was an easy tool for manipulation. Potter hadn't even blinked.

Zabini sometimes wondered if Granger ever thought to question it. She might have, being clever, but she was so embroiled in the werewolf, in _saving his life_ that she hardly even noticed. Hardly took the time to _question._

Blaise's lips curled, razor sharp.

Pathetic, stupid little _mudblood._

"To think," Malfoy said quietly, his voice the consistency of oil, "you called her _clever._"

Blaise offered him a flat look. "She got Weasley, didn't she?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Not for long, Blaise. The Dark Lord will not rest until he gets his tool back. And when he does, he will know the true extent of your loyalties."

"You forget Malfoy, that _you_ were the one that gave up Weasley. Perhaps my dealings with Granger were nothing more than a foothold, an attempt at infiltration. If Granger trusts me, then doesn't it only stand to reason that Potter will as well?"

Malfoy's face twisted, his eyes sparking hate. "Do not take me for a fool, _blood-traitor. _Gaining a foothold? As if Potter would waste his time trusting _you. _As for Granger, how much would she matter, really, if Potter left her to go chasing after the Weaslette?"

A flash of reluctant acceptance. Blaise had wondered the same thing. How much did Granger matter? Not enough, Blaise thought, because Granger was _missing. _Surely Potter would have noticed by now. Surely Potter would have had enough time to think outside of just Weasley and realize that the woman he was supposed to marry was no longer around. Surely he had to know that she couldn't possibly be safe, not when she had completely destroyed any trust the Order held in her. Coming back to the Order safe house with Ron, while ingenious, was not something that would work. Secrets had been sold—_on both sides, _a voice reminded him acidly, the name _Asphillis Adelbrandt _flashing across his mind like hot poison—but the Order did not like their plans being interfered with. Lupin had been working diligently, relentlessly, to outpace Fenrir Greyback. It had been working, too.

Until now. Until _Granger. _Because there was something about living, something about _Ron_ which drove her to the brink of her sanity, forcing her to make decisions that she never would have made had she been in the right state of mind. She was weak when it came to Ron, weak when it came to not having the boy that she loved by her side, and that thought was more than enough to make Blaise's hands curl into fists and his nails to bite painfully into his palm. _Weasley. _He was always the most important person to Granger. Just as the Weaslette was the most important person to _Potter._ And yet—

They would have come back to one another. Had Granger simply _stayed_ she would have seen Potter. Would have been able to ignore whatever hurt was poisoning her mind and pushing her so hard towards a goal Zabini didn't even understand. Her single-minded devotion towards Ron was upsetting, but she had been battling it. Until Malfoy presented her with the opportunity to get him back. And she had gotten him back, only to leave him behind once again.

Zabini's lips turned down into a frown, and his obsidian eyes glimmered as he took in the sight of Granger collapsed on the floor.

Lupin was beside her, his skin a sickening mottled gray. The silver gleaming beneath his skin was causing blisters to form, clear liquid bubbling under his skin. The content wasn't nearly so strong as to _kill_ him, but Malfoy was efficient. There was just enough to keep the werewolf unconscious until Malfoy decided to do… whatever it was that he wanted to do. Blaise had attempted questioning Malfoy, but Malfoy simply glowered at him, his silver eyes flashing with some hint of disgusted hate before ignoring him.

"Perhaps they had an agreement," Blaise said slowly. "Something similar to the one you and Granger have now."

Malfoy shot him a quick look, sneering back at Granger. "She's pathetic. Imagine, the mudblood actually managing to _get away_. The thing about Gryffindors, Blaise, is that they think with their emotions. Trapping Granger was easy. She never had the cunning it would take to get out of it, because she would spend too long panicking about the fact that she was trapped in the first place." Malfoy scoffed. "_Pathetic._"

"She is only a mudblood."

"That you protected."

"Indeed," Zabini murmured, sending one last glance towards the two trapped within the cell. "One thing, though. Just because you have Granger does not mean she's going to go down without a fight."

Malfoy glanced at him askance. "Oh?"

"It's amazing the things people will do for the ones they love. These two are no exception."

Malfoy's lips curled.

"How disgustingly sentimental."

Zabini shrugged apathetically. Sentimental but true. Granger loved the werewolf. It was just that… she loved Ron more. Anyone could see it, if they had eyes. But since Ron was safe and Harry was gone, who else was there for Granger to turn that frustratingly single-minded determination on? Zabini? Not hardly. Granger understood the situation she had left Zabini in by appearing before Malfoy and knew that he was not going to do anything to prevent whatever catastrophe was coming her way. Zabini had been compromised and there was little left they could do but play Malfoy's games.

It was amusing, in a horrific sort of way, that they were being forced into their roles so seamlessly, but… well, Slytherins always did value self-preservation above all else. Surviving was Zabini's sole ambition at this point and it didn't matter if Gryffindors were reckless and brave because a lot of times that recklessness was what allowed them to survive. Despite Granger's horrid misstep, Zabini still couldn't find it in himself to _not_ believe in her—she would do whatever it took to protect Lupin, just as soon as she realized that she _could._ If not for her, then for Harry. Because despite loving Ron, despite _forgetting_ and the agony that accompanied it, Zabini knew that those three would do anything for one another, even if it meant sacrificing their lives for something that the other person viewed as important. Still, Granger did not have to sacrifice herself. All she had to do was _fight back_ and maybe—

Maybe. Maybe she could get out of it. Maybe she could keep her own allies from hating her, or wanting her dead. Maybe she could keep from having to look Potter in the face and know that she was the cause of his pain, the reason why he had lost his last link to the past. But in the same token, Potter was back now. Potter had Weasley. If Granger got hurt…

Blaise paused on his way out the dungeon, turning to gaze at Granger speculatively. A silver chain glimmered innocently around her neck, caught on the collar of her shirt. It threatened to spill down onto the floor, the thick silver engagement band blending in with the cool silver bleeding through the thick cracks of the flagstone beneath her. A frown found its way onto Zabini's face and he regarded Malfoy coolly, the strange urge to suddenly _know_ rebounding off of Zabini's iron-clad self-control. It would have been simple to steal the thoughts from Malfoy's head, to do something to _protect_ Granger, but…

Blaise lifted his hand, fingering his own chain. Summoning Potter to him would be a stupid thing indeed. There was absolutely no way that Malfoy could know Blaise's tenuous alliance with the Gryffindor extended as far as Potter, but getting a message to the reckless man… that should be easy. Simple. Yet… would Potter even leave Weasley's side? Would he be able to turn away from her long enough to realize that a Death Eater protecting Granger was not enough?

Zabini didn't know. Potter had abandoned Granger to him, after all. Even so…

Fingering the little band at his neck, Zabini turned and left. He couldn't overtly help Granger, not when there was so much at stake but he _could _alert Potter. And if his message wasn't enough, the second Granger started to feel physical pain, Potter would know.

Once safely away, Zabini pulled out his wand and touched the tip to the band. It glowed hot then cold then hot again, a strange filmy haze in the magic lighting of his home. He waited a beat, repeated the process.

The necklace flashed green.

Potter knew.

It was just too bad, Blaise thought, that there was nothing he could do. He would have liked to. But Granger was on her own and he didn't have time to look after someone so weak.

Saving himself was more of an issue.

…

_**2:37 p.m.**_

"Welcome back, Ms. Granger."

Hermione flinched as Lupin's voice cut through the painful agony of her headache; she felt sluggish as she pushed herself to her knees. She hadn't remembered passing out, but apparently she had. She hadn't remembered coming to full consciousness, either, but Hermione did not believe it was as much of a problem as the pain in her head. She thought to groan, but decided against it, pressing her hands to her temples and exerting pressure; the pain alleviated slightly, but it was still there, fainter, less debilitating.

Peeking through her lashes, Hermione found Lupin leaning calmly against the iron bars of their cell—and it was a cell, Hermione thought, eyes skimming over the damp flagstones that made up the wall and the thick black bars of wrought-iron metal that kept them caged in, like wild animals. _Or rather, Lupin, _Hermione thought bitterly, hating the direction her thoughts had taken.

He appeared utterly still, utterly incomprehensible. The hard lines of his face were not trapped in the beautiful softness she was accustomed to, but then again, Hermione had come face to face with that clinical coldness; fury had burned brightly in his eyes when he had clamped his hands down around her wrists with a bruising intent, but that fury was something Hermione feared, something she never wanted to come face to face with again. The coldness she could handle. The sharp chill of his unforgiving words cutting into her with each vicious blow—easy to bear, easy to hide behind her swiftly crumbling mask every time a new lie situated itself in her mind. There was no escaping the situation she had found herself in, yet she could not possibly tell him the truth, not when there was so much at _risk_ of being destroyed because of it. Knowing that his words hurt and pushing forward… Hermione could do that. She could handle it. But the fury… Lupin was just as good at creating personas as Hermione was. Probably better. Being guarded, hard, unbreakable—Lupin had acted that way, in the hallway, when he had cast the Tracking Spell. There was nothing weak or movable about the face Hermione had been presented with and she knew that he would likely remain that way… unless she could save him.

And she had wanted to, so desperately. But—

They were in a cage. Trapped.

"Where are—"

"I imagine you are far better equipped to answer that question than I am," Lupin said coolly, settling more comfortably against the bars. "Have you noticed, Ms. Granger? There is silver in the floor."

Hermione jerked as though she had been slapped. Her hands drifted away from her head and the pounding returned with fierceness, but Hermione forced herself passed it, towards the vicious lines of silver bleeding in the cracks of the carefully placed flagstone. Something inhuman and violent tore throughout her, screamed of _death—killing people is silly, _a luminescent voice said, smelling like radishes—because Lupin shouldn't be awake, not with this much silver, not when there was such a chance of it burning into his skin and threatening to _destroy _the beast that had mutilated his cells and pumped through his blood like some sort of rampant _disease—_

"No," Hermione whispered, horrified as she traced the silver with her eyes. What in Merlin's name was Malfoy trying to—

"He means to kill you," Hermione said numbly, bracing her hands against the floor to look at Lupin. "Malfoy—he's leading the mission on the Sanctuary now, and you're getting in his way. He means to kill you, but—the silver… why—"

"I should think that would be obvious," Lupin said. Hermione noticed he had no shoes on. Thin, blistering lines ran across the bottom of his feet—_from the silver, _Hermione thought, something desperate and painful erupting in her chest, _he's already come into contact with it… Malfoy is making sure he'll be too weak to fight back—_and Hermione wished she could just reach out and heal them, make the disease go away so they wouldn't have to _worry_…

"What? Please, Remus, I don't understand—"

Lupin's expression hardened at her casual use of his first name, but Hermione ignored it. She knew it hurt, the closeness she was forcing between them after she had betrayed him; her throat tightened, because that was another thing she had done wrong, and she needed to tell _someone_. But Lupin was already speaking, "The full moon is tonight."

Hermione blinked at him, unable to process what he had said. The full moon is… the _full moon_ and—

Remus was a werewolf.

Hermione's eyes widened. "_Oh._"

"My thoughts exactly."

Hermione wasn't quite sure what came over her then. All she knew was that the full moon was that evening and although werewolves were dangerous creatures, Remus had confessed to her by proxy of his journal that being around people, being able to touch them reminded him that he was human. That there was more than just the madness bleeding through him, threatening to crush all of his human senses. And Remus _was_ human. Hermione knew this better than anyone. She had seen his words scribbled so fiercely across the page, laced with so much _emotion—_

She gripped his shoulders tightly, felt the corded muscles under her fingers tense to the point of breaking. She pressed her face into his neck, breathed in a scent that was distinctly wild; the madness was awakening under his skin, waiting for the moment when the cool beams of the moon would brush skin, igniting the mutation within him. But aside from that, Lupin was also distinctly male; a thin coating of sweat moistened his skin, and there was the fading scent of old soap and freshly baked bread. Mrs. Weasley had baked bread that morning—had it been that morning?—the distinctive smell of yeast seemed to have settled deep into the fabric of Lupin's clothes, the reminder of her friends and family a comfort Hermione hadn't yet realized.

"I'm going to save you," Hermione murmured, holding Lupin tightly.

Hermione cringed internally when Lupin's fingers gave a spasm against her sides; they were light, feathery not-quite-there touches, the heat mere whispers of what it should be. Hermione thought back to his words, to the neatly penned ink across the page of his journal—his most private of thoughts, laid bare before her judgment because she simply couldn't stay _put_—there were so many excuses Hermione could offer up, but the thought of lying to Remus, of keeping the truth from him now, when faced with the knowledge that he had been brought there to _die…_ Hermione's betrayal ran deep, she knew. He cared so much for her, yet all she could manage was to pierce through him with the unrelenting force of her selfishness.

She could have died, Hermione realized. It would have been so simple to just return Ron to Headquarters and disappear back to Zabini's hideout. The feel of the place was lingering in the back of her mind like a phantom caress, dark and heavy and cruel, filled with the faint taint of pain—_The Cruciatus Curse, _she thought, because there was no other explanation for it—and weakness, for she had been so overwhelmed with her emotions, with feeling _trapped_ that she hadn't realized that there had been a way out from the very beginning. Seeing Lupin again had been unnecessary. Hermione hadn't needed but wanted; she wanted to look into his amber eyes and see that flash of recognition, unburdened by her betrayal. She wanted to see the affection she had read so clearly in his words, wanted to know that there was still trust between them, that they were still friends and so very _human. _Ron had been lost, but Lupin _wasn't_ and Hermione had wanted it so _badly—_even overwhelmed by the maelstrom that erupted inside of her at seeing Ron, listless and absent, knowing that he was there but not—despite that, the feeling had continued to swarm within her, the feeling that she had to get to Lupin, that she had to see him just to make sure he was safe… and yet.

He wasn't. Not now. Not with the imminent threat of Malfoy's plan lingering over their heads, suffocating them until there was nothing left but the bitter hate of deceit and betrayal. Lupin's eyes had been cold when he last saw her, furious and hurt, because of all the people to betray them, of the people to turn their backs on them—Peter Pettigrew had been agonizing enough, but learning to place his trust into another only to have that trust thrown back into his face… Hermione didn't want to be the cause of more hurt, yet she had so effortlessly ushered it in without a second thought, without considering the consequences because all there had been was Ron, even from the beginning. The thought that she hadn't seen past that burned. It wasn't supposed to be that way.

Yet it was. And she couldn't take it back.

"You betrayed me," Lupin said after a moment.

_It can't matter though, _Hermione thought, pulling away from Lupin to give him a watery smile. His face was hard and his fingers slipped away from his nearly non-existent embrace to fall neatly into his lap; thin scars crossed over his face and Hermione wondered how she hadn't noticed them before. There were far more than Malfoy's—her lips turned down into a frown at that, because she had made a _promise_ and she couldn't renege, not now, not when there was still opportunity to be _saved—_but the hurt was as apparent in his face as in his heart and Hermione knew that nothing she did could ever make the situation better.

"Yes," Hermione finally managed. There was no use denying it.

"It is as I said before, Ms. Granger, I have no desire to know the minds of traitors." Hermione flinched at the reminder, but there was no way to _take it all back _and—

_All right, Hermione,_ she thought to herself, forcing her eyes away from Lupin's accusing stare and to her surroundings. There were torches hanging from the wall outside the wrought-iron bars, illuminating the murky flagstones with splashes of light. Silver bled through the cracks there, just as it did in the cell—cages for werewolves, then, Hermione thought, because Malfoy _was_ leading the infiltration on the werewolf Sanctuary, so it only made sense for him to have some protection against them. It wasn't enough to incapacitate them completely, Lupin was proof of that, but it was more than enough to hurt them, to weaken the madness coursing through their blood like some sort of viral infection. Hermione glanced at the bottom of Lupin's feet once again, allowing the sight of blistering lines to fuel her anger—there was no more time for self-reproach, no more time to regret what she could have done; they had yet to see Malfoy, but it did not change the fact that he was undoubtedly _there. _She had thought of ways to save Lupin, thought of all the things she could do to ensure he survived the war, and the last thought that had rang clearly in her mind, reaching deep and planting itself firmly in the soft tissues of her brain was the one thing that made Lupin hate her in the first place.

Betrayal.

Betraying Malfoy—the thought continued to appeal to her, even now. Giving him Lupin, dropping her guard to the point of allowing the Portkey to activate...

"Right," Hermione thought, unfolding herself to her full height. She cast her gaze around for her wand; it had been in her hands when the Portkey had whisked her and Lupin away, before the momentum of… a spell? Hermione wasn't sure, she couldn't quite remember much after the pull hooked behind her navel and tugged like a jagged piece of barbed wire, but she could remember something hitting her with such a force it had made her head spin and then… nothing. "Do you have your wand?"

Lupin audibly hesitated. "No."

Hermione frowned, the tone of his voice bringing her up short. "Do you have _my_ wand?"

"Would you think me foolish enough to tell you if I did, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione's lips pursed as she narrowed her eyes in his direction. "_Fine,_" she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest, her glare softening as she took in his prone form. "But I'll have you know that before the Portkey activated, I was actually looking for a way to prevent…" Hermione gestured absently to the room around her, "…this."

"Which, if you will concede to me this point, we would not be in had you not betrayed us in the first place."

"I concede the point," Hermione said through gritted teeth. "But I also meant what I said. I'm going to save you."

_Even if I pale in comparison._

"And how, Ms. Granger, do you propose you do that?"

"Well if I _had my wand_ I might be able to start with banishing the silver in the floor."

A pensive look crossed over Lupin's face then, different from the hardened stare he had pinned on her moments before. Hermione waited, knowing that the decision wouldn't come easily, but whatever decision Lupin made, it would have to be fast. Hermione wasn't quite sure how long she had been unconscious, but her limbs had felt horribly sluggish and her headache had felt like it had been brought on by a mixture of too much… unconsciousness and a mixture of something else—(_a faint, almost there flicker of bitterly cold snow and scarlet splashing against rusted manacles made her stomach churn painfully_)—and she wouldn't put it past Malfoy to suddenly appear, sneering and insulting them both, lifting his wand and allowing that horrible arc of green magic to pass through the bars and slam forcefully into Lupin's chest. His death would be simple, easy. And yet… tonight was the night of the full moon. Whatever Malfoy was planning had to involve Remus being a werewolf and Hermione knew that whatever came, they _had_ to be gone before that plan could come to fruition. Lupin could think as much as he wanted to, but if he didn't come to a decision, and fast, there wouldn't be a chance for them to escape.

"I have… tried," Lupin said at last. "Your wand is exceedingly compatible with me and yet I am quite unable to produce any results."

"This cell does seem equipped to incapacitate werewolves," Hermione pointed out. Lupin glanced away from her, the muscles in his jaws moving oddly as he gazed at the silver beneath him. The burn was buffeted by his thick clothing; had Malfoy really wanted to cripple Remus, he would have made certain there was no buffer between the skin and silver across the floor. The scent though—that was what caused the most trouble, Hermione knew. For werewolves, the scent of silver was highly distracting and upsetting; working to his full capacity had to be near impossible with the metallic odor lingering in the air and clotting his nasal passages. Nearer to the full moon, werewolves were ultra-sensitive to the things around them; they could feel every texture, taste every undertone, hear every current of movement. Lupin's focus must have been shattered infinitesimally as the scent saturated the air, so strong that it morphed into taste, sliding thickly over his tongue and aggravating his taste buds. Another stab of guilt coursed through Hermione and she sighed soundlessly, tugging her brown curls out of her face with an aggravated flick of her wrist.

"Well perhaps you would like to try a Disillusionment Charm? I know it would hardly do much considering—well, at the very least, it will be far more difficult for Malfoy to pinpoint your location—"

"You are assuming, of course, that any attempts at magic assisting in our escape of this cell was what resulted in my failure," Lupin said, his amber eyes darkening as he gazed at Hermione. "However, I was not trying to escape, but rather trying to rouse you from the depths of your unconsciousness."

"Oh," Hermione said blankly. She paused. "This cell does seem equipped to—"

"—_incapacitate werewolves_," Lupin finished, his jaw clenching in his anger. "You have made yourself quite clear on that matter, Ms. Granger. But perhaps I have not done the same for myself; you are a traitor. I have no reason to trust you."

"_Remus_—"

"_Don't,_" he snarled, jerking as if to go to his feet but aborting the movement at the last moment. Hermione paused, watching as amber darkened to something unfathomably angry; the rage was there, boiling beneath the surface, blending with the madness in a whirlwind of fury and hate and _betrayal _and Hermione felt herself staggering backwards, nearly choking on the intensity of Lupin's expression.

Silence permeated the air between them, charged thick with emotions.

Quietly, Hermione settled back against the bars on the opposite side of the cell, her fingers brushing the sensitive skin at her wrists. She wasn't sure what to do; an apology wasn't enough to fix the mess she had created, to repair the damage she had made to a strong friendship. Thinking back, Hermione could remember the time when they were just student and professor—a bright, thirteen year old eager to soak up knowledge and some of Harry's only foundation. Yet that relationship had morphed—_Not at all up to your usual standard Hermione, only one out of three, I'm afraid—_with the vicious accusations she had slung his way, slowing transforming into something akin to trust. Then, after Harry had disappeared… the closeness that formed between them was unexpected. The knowledge that they had been able to share. What was once student and teacher had slowly become two adult _friends;_ Hermione grimaced internally as she thought of what she had broken, what had been so easily destroyed simply by following Harry's non-existent advice—trust the Death Eater. Follow his plans. Her own machinations had gotten in the way, her own curiosity and rejection at being excluded, her need to excel and be _better_ then even _Harry…_

He was right to leave her, Hermione thought. Choosing Ginny over her… it was _right. _Ginny never had to compete with him. What type of stable relationship could last if one person was eternally competing with the other?

_But that's not what matters, _Hermione thought bitterly, gazing at Lupin guiltily. _Even if Harry and I never do get married, at the very least, he'll have his father's best friend. Losing Sirius was bad enough, but losing Remus as well… I'm going to save him. I refuse to let him die._

"_Remus_," Hermione said, less desperation and more strength behind the word. He glanced at her coolly. "Remus, I need my wand."

"Perhaps you did not hear me—"

"_Perhaps,_" Hermione said forcefully, her gaze narrowing intently, "you did not hear _me. _I want my wand _now. _I refuse to let you just… accept defeat because you're too hurt and betrayed to let me get us out of this. Now, _give me my wand_!"

"Do what she said, _Professor._"

Hermione and Lupin jerked, surging to their feet—Lupin gasped, shifting back quickly as his toes slid over hot silver; the flagstone was cool, comforting, but the new blisters were already forming, wet and bubbly and searing. Hermione wanted to spare him a comforting look, but the new arrival—_Malfoy, _she thought with a surge of savage anger, because he was going to _kill_ Lupin and they were already supposed to be _out of there—_was leaning against the wall, partially illuminated by the magical torches on the wall. His pale skin was thrown into sharp relief; he was all angles and shadows, thin lips pulled into an impressive sneer, silver eyes partially hidden within the inky shadows. He was wearing thick, charcoal gray robes and a pretty white mask was clutched in one hand. Those hands, Hermione thought, that could hurt her, take Lupin away, make the both of them _suffer—_

"After all," Malfoy continued, his eyes sparking with malice, "you wouldn't want the mudblood to die without a fight, would you? How unfair it would be, allowing her to fight a werewolf head on without any sort of protection." Lupin's lips pulled back in a snarl, and Malfoy arched an imperious brow. "I was always under the impressing that _Order members_ did not allow such blatant cruelty to infuse their ranks. After all, they are _Light wizards._"

Malfoy laughed. "Not that it matters, really. Either you'll die, or Granger will. Which one will hurt Potter the most, I wonder?"

"_Malfoy—_"

"I'd be a fool to pass up such an opportunity," Malfoy said, staring directly at Granger. "And even if _you_ die, I will still have my victory. The Sanctuary will belong to the Dark Lord and all werewolves will know what _greatness_ he is capable of."

"Mark my words," Hermione mocked, folding her arms tightly across her chest. Her fingers bit into the fleshy meat of her biceps; the pain grounded her, reminded her that there was still a chance, that she could still save Lupin, that there was _still a chance_ because—

Because there had to be. There was no room for failure. Losing Lupin... it was unacceptable. And if she could—if it was within her power, Hermione would do everything humanly possible to make Malfoy regret putting them in this position. She would make him _hurt._

Malfoy smiled, all cruel delight.

"Blaise fancies the two of you in love with each other," Malfoy said at last, and Hermione stiffened, her eyes flashing as she glared at Malfoy. "What was it he said again? Oh, yes. '_It's amazing the things people will do for the ones they love. These two are no exception.'_ So the question remains, just how much do you love him Granger? Enough to die for him?" Malfoy paused. "But… no. You're not Potter. Even so, I imagine you 'want to save him,' don't you? Not because you love him, but because you love _Potter._"

Hermione's fingers dug deeper into her arms, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. "I _hate_ you."

Malfoy shrugged absently, his eyes drifting off to space beside him. His lips curled again as he faced Hermione, pushing off of the wall and drifting closer to the bars. Lupin tensed, his hands twitching at his sides—probably readying himself to spring across the cell and strangle Malfoy if he got close enough, Hermione thought, catching sight of movement near the dungeon entrance. She blinked, narrowing her eyes—and brown clashed with intense obsidian as Zabini moved quietly closer, not bothering with caution as he leaned full against the bars, his dark skin gleaming slightly in the torchlight.

"Granger," he greeted quietly. Hermione stared at him. "You're in quite the predicament."

"I only have myself to blame, to be certain."

Zabini frowned. "Our deal is off. Do you remember the deal we struck with one another?—that we would only assist each another in our goals until it no longer benefitted either party?" Hermione frowned, quickly trying to work through Zabini's superfluous and random wording when something struck her—_I wasn't the one who made the deal with him, _she thought, her heart hammering with a sudden spike of adrenaline, _Harry did. But—Harry. What does Harry have to do with anything? _"How does it feel, _knowing _that we can no longer continue our association because you are of no further use to me? No use to Death Eaters, no use to—" his eyes drifted away from Hermione to land on Lupin, "—your precious Order members. And, of course, when Potter realizes that you turned traitor… but he's already abandoned you, hasn't he? For _Weasley. _Because she's more important than you will ever be. So you'll die, because you're of absolutely no use. Sad, that the Cleverest-Witch-Of-Our-Age is nothing but a pathetic, useless _mudblood _that can't even protect herself_._"

Hermione froze, her eyes widening.

_No, _she thought numbly, trying her best not to let her reaction show on her face. _Harry knows. He __**knows. **__And he—_Hermione's heart stuttered to a halt.

_He has Ginny. He has __**Ginny.**_

_Which means that the Dark Lord __**doesn't.**_

Warmth blossomed, thick and deep in Hermione's chest as she gazed at Zabini, for him and Harry both. And Ginny. Because Ginny was safe. Because the Dark Lord was one step further from his goals—and Hermione had half the secret. Half of a secret that she needed to get to Dumbledore, to _Harry_ before everything spiraled out of control. The Sanctuary wasn't even a blip on the radar compared to what Hermione knew, and if she didn't get out… something inside of her solidified, hardening into something unmovable. Unbreakable.

"Says the blood-traitor," Hermione whispered. "But whose betrayal will hurt the Dark Lord more? The Death Eater that conspires with mudbloods, or the Death Eater that delivers the Dark Lord's pet project safely into the arms of his enemies?"

Malfoy reared back, as if ready to hit her. "You _filthy_ little—"

"Do what you want, Malfoy," Hermione said firmly, talking over him. "Yes. I betrayed Remus, but the only person I have to answer to for that is Harry. Somehow, I think he'll be far more understanding than Voldemort will _ever_ be. And I honestly couldn't care less what you do to _me, _because I will do everything in my power to make sure that Remus Lupin comes out of this alive. Even if it means sacrificing my life—_I'm going to save him._ You're going to lose Malfoy. Remus may be a werewolf, but I'm the Cleverest-Witch-of-My-Age and that has to count for _something_."

Malfoy snorted, his fingers twitching by his side. "You can speak as many pretty words as you like. You're still going to _lose._ Let's go, Blaise."

They left.

Hermione waited a long moment before turning to face Lupin; her heart was thudding wildly in her chest, but she was _not_ going to let Malfoy win, under any circumstance.

"It does," Lupin said suddenly, startling Hermione. She watched him, her shoulders shaking at the oddly soft set to his eyes. "Your cleverness," he clarified, gingerly moving across the room, careful to avoid the thin lines of silver bleeding through the floor, "it counts for something."

He stopped before her, studying her intently as he reached forward; his fingers were hot as they grazed her knuckles, and Hermione held in a shudder—there was still a hardness present, one composed of hurt and anger, but it was belied by something else, something Hermione couldn't readily identify. Her will solidified, grew infinitely stronger as he cradled her hands between his own—and then there was a rush of familiar warmth, tingling across the pads of her fingers and firing up her nerves—her head began to ache in earnest, strange flashes of vision burying themselves into her mind… but Hermione pushed it away, trying her hardest to focus on the rush of affection, because Lupin was there, blank but _there_ and—

"I want to save you, too," Lupin answered quietly, dutifully ignoring Hermione's rapidly fluttering eyelashes. "I suppose I should give myself the chance to do so."

Lupin released her. Stepped back.

The sudden ache of loss was unwelcome and entirely unexpected. But he had reason not to want to touch her, Hermione knew. He had reason to not trust her. And yet… he was giving a little bit of trust back to her, hoping that there was some _way—_but it didn't matter, what hurt continued to linger in Remus's heart. It didn't matter because he had done the one thing Hermione was not expecting him to.

He had given back her wand.

It was only right for her to do the same.

"Asphillis Adelbrandt," Hermione said quite suddenly, watching as Lupin's gaze ripped away from the silver curling across the floor. "He's the reason why I was so intent on Blaise Zabini. Zabini has become quite familiar with Adelbrandt's work, and I only just found out recently, when I managed to retrieve Ron. At first I was confused because it didn't make any sense, not with the riddle that I had been given, but—now I know for sure. Voldemort is using the research of Asphillis Adelbrandt in an attempt to gain immortality."

"Ms. Granger—"

"Forgive me, Professor, but one of us might die tonight. There is a chance that we may both survive but… I said I'd do anything, and I meant it. I'm willing to sacrifice… _everything. _And if I die, I just thought… at the very least, _you'll _know. And you'll escape. And you'll tell Dumbledore and I—"

"You are quite right," Lupin said, gazing at her intently. "And I have complete faith that you will do what is necessary and needed. It is not always easy to do what is right, but being confronted with this information… you betrayed me, Ms. Granger. That is not something that can be easily overcome. But I trust that you will continue to follow this path you have been walking and maintain the courage and strength to do what is _right _before you do what is easy."

"Yes, Professor," Hermione whispered, frowning at him. There was something _wrong_. "I'll do my best."

"Naturally," Lupin replied, and then there was no more time for talking.

Saving Lupin was more important.

Hermione cast a spell.

It failed.

…

_**6:08 p.m.**_

Harry was agitated.

No. It was more than agitation. It was more than the half-there awareness he felt whenever he was assaulted with visions of Ginny's nightmares—something he had yet to understand, even now—more than the itch he felt in the base of his palm whenever Hermione slanted him an annoyingly knowing look, or _lied_ to him about the way her heart _beat_ for Ron—

But her heart was big enough for him, too. Harry knew this. Felt it. It had been the reason they were to be married; there was simply _so much love_ and it felt wonderful to have her hand tucked into his, to smell the ink on her fingers, to scent the thick aroma of parchment and old books whenever he entered her flat—there was a comfort there, inquisitive and sharp, but _relaxing, _and it infuriated him that Hermione simply wasn't _there._

Asking the Weasley's was near impossible; they were so intent on Ginny. Not that he blamed them, of course, because his focus had been on her from the moment she had folded herself into his embrace, all quiet words and broken determination. Broken _spirit, _yet Harry had felt her gratitude as her fingers curled against his side; her fingers were slicked warm with his blood, but she never commented on it, not once. She never even commented on the way he rushed her back, despite his exhaustion, because they had to get away—he had been frightened, when it seemed she couldn't breathe. The sharp gasps of breath Ginny took whenever they managed reorient themselves in the real physical plane of existence had been heart-wrenching and terrifying. The need to simply _get Ginny to safety_ had consumed his mind like plumes of smoke; and the terror still lingered. Ginny was more than safe, but the terror still lingered.

The bitterness, though… Harry hadn't counted on it. Ginny had been so bitter when she spoke those awful words—_such a hero, _and Harry couldn't stop the flash of anger from coursing throughout his body, because Hermione had said something like that once too—and Harry could only respond with honest fury, yet he had laced it with so much _want._

Hermione had been safe when he said it. When he said he still loved Ginny. Something unpleasant had unfurled in the pit of his stomach, because his engagement ring was laying so cool against his clavicle, just _there—_and Hermione wasn't. He had been so distracted by Ginny and what having her back represented… telling her how he felt, reminding her that love didn't just _stop… _that he hadn't really _tried_ to just _find out_ where Hermione had been. Not around, and Harry knew this, because if she had been… if she had been…

Harry wasn't quite sure what he would have said to her. How she would have reacted. Would she have been furious with him? Would she hate him for leaving her? He had so much faith in her, even now, to understand. She still loved Ron, hadn't she? He could remember, all those months ago, when she had left their room, angry because—well, he had been angry first. He had smelled the alcohol on her breath, knew the _only_ way for it to smell so thick and cloying had to be a result of… well, Hermione didn't drink. Didn't agree with it. But it had been _there_ and Harry had felt his stomach flip over and bile rise in the back of his throat because Hermione was supposed to be _his. _She had accepted his proposal, pressed her soft mouth against his, allowed his hands to grip the curve of her hips and slide to the small of her back, pressing her ever closer—there was love there, obvious, all-consuming _love_ and yet—

And yet.

It simply hadn't been enough. Harry wasn't stupid. He knew that Hermione had relearned the way Ron's body felt weighing her down, the way his hands would grip her… whichever… and the thought had burned him, made him furious and angry and _Merlin, _but he just wanted to _hit them both, _because Hermione was fucking _his. _Ron had left her, alone and crying and _fucking miserable_ and despite that, despite all that he had done to Hermione, despite the way her breath would hitch and her eyes would film over with the thick sheen of tears she still went back to him at the first damn opportunity. Still took all of Harry's love and threw it back in his face and he was damn near ready to just _end it—_but his heart had stuttered at the thought and it had been hard to breathe, because life without Hermione was just… unacceptable. Unrealistic. It wasn't going to happen. Except it _was_—

And then Ron had disappeared. And then there was no reason to be so furious, but there was reason to be guilty. And then, not even a few hours later, _Ginny _was gone, and Harry suddenly understood _why_ it had been so easy for Hermione to just _go back _because Harry wanted to _go back, too. _Only—

Impossible. Because Ginny was gone. Part of Harry had wondered whether or not Hermione was feeling as empty as he had been, especially since she could have prevented Ron's disappearance. Did she feel at fault? Did she feel that all-consuming pressure weighing down on her, tasting vaguely of guilt and self-reproach? She had to have. Her hand still remained tucked against his, her kisses still pressed against his mouth and her body still only moved alongside Harry's, but her mind—teeter-tottering between the both of them, just as Harry's mind teeter-tottered between the soft inquisitiveness of needing to know and the fierce, hot fire of unbreakable will and determination. There was strength in different things. Beauty manifested itself in the mosaic, little pieces that came together to form a complete picture, yet the complete picture were the exact opposites, for the both of them.

Yet the guilt remained. No matter how much Harry loved Hermione, no matter how much he wanted her to remain with him, there was no way that he could just leave Ginny to that fate, just as he knew there was no way for Hermione to just leave _Ron_ to his fate. Harry could see her cracking each more with every passing day; it was one thing if he was with his family. It was something else entirely when he was in the hands of the enemy, being tortured or manipulated or—Harry couldn't bear to think about what was happening to his best friend. He felt sick and violated and _Merlin, _something had to be done, something needed to be _fixed, _but going after Ron was hard because once Ron was back—_once Ron was back—_

Harry had never hated himself more than he did then.

So he went after Ginny, not because she was more important, but because going after Ron meant having to look him in the face and _know_ that he was the reason for Ron's misery, know that he had betrayed his best friend not once, not twice, but _three times—_first, in taking Hermione. Second, in _keeping_ Hermione and third, in wishing that, even if Ron came back, Hermione would never leave _him. _Harry. Ron's loneliness was easier to bear than his own. But looking Ron in the face after _thinking_ that, after hoping that he didn't come back if he meant that he could have Hermione—unforgivable. Even if he couldn't save Ginny—he was going to get Ron next. To face up to his own insecurities, because Ron may have had his issues throughout the years, but they had always been _friends_ and nothing was supposed to come between them, not even Hermione.

No matter how much he loved her, having them both as friends was far better than having one and losing the other.

So Harry was going to make it right.

Only now that he had Ginny, he wasn't quite sure what to do next.

And Hermione, it seemed, had _already __saved_ _Ron_—not that Harry knew where is best friend _was, _because no one wanted to tell him _anything_—which brought up a plethora of questions that Harry wasn't equipped to answer.

There had been a surge of pride, of fierce affection that was nearly staggering, but the moment he asked about Hermione's _whereabouts_ he was shot down, rebuffed, ignored. It infuriated him in ways that brought him back to fifth year, when he had first been introduced to the Order of the Phoenix. No one had wanted to tell him anything, determined to keep their secrets—unbearable fury and rejection had clouded his mind, but the rejection was absent this time. There was just fury… only that had given way the moment the ring on his clavicle began to burn.

Harry had been frozen, frightened and angry and _confused_ because Hermione was supposed to be _safe—_and then came the knowledge that no matter how much every instinct was telling him to _go_, to find her and save her because _he could not lose Hermione, _Zabini had given him a warning. Going to save Hermione was impossible. Whatever was happening… Zabini had been found out, too. And if Zabini had been found out…

It was more than agitation. It was fear and nausea and _helplessness_ because he had to save Hermione, to make sure that nothing bad happened to her, to make sure that she would stay alive and in his life, even if it wasn't as his wife or his fiancée or his girlfriend. As long as Hermione was just there—

She wasn't.

And there was absolutely nothing Harry could do about it.

_(Except_.)

…

_Professor Snape,_

_I need your help. Whether you give it to me or not is up to you._

_If you have no other engagements, I ask that you meet me at eight tonight at Headquarters. I'll be in the kitchen._

_Signed,_

_Harry Potter_

…

_**7:58 p.m.**_

The spells weren't _working_.

Failure was not something Hermione could acquaint herself with, yet the harder she tried the faster the magic slipped away into non-existence—will was not enough to make the spells into existence, to make them _work_.

Hermione bit back a curse, frustrated tears streaming freely down her face as she attempted to just _swish-and-flick_, but—

"Ms. Granger," Lupin said softly, "perhaps it is best to just—"

"_No!_ I can make it work, I know I can, all I have to do is—"

One second, there was the tingle under her fingers, the basic movement of swish-and-flick that had been instilled into her head so effortlessly at Hogwarts, and then there was—

_Pounding, the fierce pounding thrum of fire eating up her sides, doused in the cool frigidity of water as chains wrapped around her ankles and wrists and pulled, splattering the obsidian rocks crimson and—_

A horrible, violent growl that shook her down to the marrow of her bones as the whisper of a spell shot through the air, the cool comfort of magic slowly washing over her as pain erupted behind her eyelids, jack hammering a maelstrom of agony through her head and down her limbs and there was nothing but pain_._

_Agony._

And finally—

Nothing.

…

_**8:00 p.m.**_

"Snape."

"_Potter._"

"I need your help."

"_Obviously._"

A deep breath. The cooling of a temper. A flush of humility. And—

"Blaise Zabini is a spy."

The truth.

There was a pause, long and painful and Harry just wanted it to _end_ because Hermione _was not allowed to __**die**__._

Because if she did—_if she did—_

But, "Go on."

Harry's heart froze.

"_Continue, _Potter."

So he did.

…

_**8:30 p.m.**_

It was the chill that woke her up.

Hermione blinked in the surrounding area, groaning as rubbed her hands against her pounding temples—it wouldn't go away, not even _now—_then braced her hands against the ground. Lupin was next to her, watching her carefully as she struggled into a sitting position; the grass was wet and dewy beneath her hands, causing shivers to move up her spine.

And she remembered. She remembered the frustration as she strived to get a spell to work, the way her eyes stung with tears, and the pain as a magic slammed into her back, knocking her unconscious. She wasn't sure how long it had been, but if Lupin was still human and she was still alive—Hermione patted down her pockets, only to jump when Lupin hastily stuffed her wand into her hand, refusing to meet her eyes.

Lupin was completely and utterly stiff as he stared at the paddock surrounding them. Hermione bit her lip. She wasn't sure what to do. She wanted to talk to him, but at the same time she could _feel_ the stress radiating off of him in waves, could feel his urge to run, and could feel the resentment that he held for her and himself—why were they in this situation? How could Hermione have allowed this happen? How could _he_ have allowed this to happen? Hermione's betrayal hung heavy in the air, hot and unforgivable. If only she had been quicker, if only she had thought _harder_, if only she had been _smarter_—

Giving Malfoy the information had been a mistake. Agreeing to give up Lupin's life… allowing him to touch that Portkey… Hermione's stomach clenched with the knowledge of what was about to unfold because she was supposed to have been able to protect him, to keep Lupin's light from fading out, to keep him in the world because he was important to Harry. Because the willingness to sacrifice everything was supposed to be _enough._ She was supposed to be able to atone for her mistakes, to make things between them better, even if it meant her death because Lupin mattered to her, too. Saving him was the only option. She just hadn't been strong enough.

Hermione's heart clenched and she stepped away from Lupin, fumbling with her wand.

The last time she had a run-in with the lupine Lupin, he had tried to kill her. She knew that this time would be no different. She still had a short amount of time, she could still run, could still work a spell to break down the defenses Malfoy had set up, only cycling through the spells to figure out what he had done would take ages and there wasn't enough _time… _Protecting herself should have been easy—cast the spell, watch the filmy blue of a shield erect around her, except that was for spells, not for _werewolves_ and time was just going by _so fast—_

Hermione had nothing, and she knew it.

_Protego, _she thought anyways and watched the solid blue shield erect itself in front her. It faded a moment later.

"At least the magic works," Hermione thought sickly, glancing towards Lupin.

Lupin didn't meet her eyes, just continued to stare at the ground, his face contorted in black rage. Hermione wanted to reach out to him; she wanted to wrap her arms around him, remind him what it was to feel human again, tell him that everything would work out in the end—that everything would be all right. But despite whatever desire he felt to save her, he still let her know that she was not _trusted_—_I don't make it my business to understand the minds of traitors—_and making this all right was nigh impossible. There was no way she could turn back time, no way she could erase everything she had done. Telling Lupin the truth about the diary, about her deal with Malfoy, about _everything_ still hadn't been enough to erase the cold look that darkened his amber eyes, nor gain his forgiveness. Sacrificing herself, while noble, couldn't erase the past. Couldn't erase the fact that she had broken his trust, had seen his inner most private thoughts and still trampled all over them, regardless.

Nothing would be all right. Saying such a thing was such a disgustingly horrid lie that she couldn't even bring herself to say it. Panic clotted her mind, keeping it immovable—_Cleverest-Witch-Of-My-Age and I can't even save the people I love—_and it poisoned, spreading slowly through her body until her limbs felt like lead. But there was no point in regretting, not when she had mustered up such _determination—the magic works now, _she reminded herself, _there has to be a way out—_Hermione flicked her wrist, watched as the spell flew through the air only to slam against a shimmering wall of—nothing. At least, it seemed like nothing, but if magic wasn't getting through it… Hermione quickly levitated a rock and flung it at the dome, jumping as the rock exploded against magic.

"Have you—"

"_Yes,_" Lupin breathed through clenched teeth. "We will not be able to escape." He paused. "Malfoy is over there. I imagine he wishes to watch, to see which one of us will survive this night."

Hermione scowled, turning towards the far end of the paddock—Malfoy was there, just as Lupin said, leaning elegantly against the rough wood, his sneer etched firmly in place.

_Please,_ some weak part of her wanted to call out, to beg. _Please don't do this. Please just let us go, please just let us leave._

But she knew that he wouldn't. His need to manipulate and control was that much stronger. There were consequences to failure—a master Legilimens was Malfoy's Lord, the only person he would ever be loyal to, aside from himself, and it was that loyalty, that need to survive that was pushing him.

That need to be the _victor-winner-triumphant_ that kept Malfoy hunting and manipulating and _Merlin, _Hermione thought, _he's a Death Eater for a reason. What made me think I could even __**compare—**_

It was just too bad that Zabini's inaction hurt more than she thought it would.

_Not now, Hermione,_ she said to herself, shaking her frizzy curls out of her face. _Focus. Objective one: find—_

"Ms. Granger," Lupin said quietly. Hermione snapped to attention. Her pulse thrummed beneath the underside of her skin, pupils dilating with the surge of adrenaline.

"Yes, Remus?"

His eyes snapped to her, dark and amber, but she couldn't keep from speaking his name, couldn't control the urge to talk everything better because it was all she had left and they weren't supposed to die, not yet, not before she had the chance to _tell_ everyone—

_(Asphillis Adelbrandt, _Hermione had confessed to Lupin softly, _Voldemort is using the research of Asphillis Adelbrandt in an attempt to gain immortality.)_

Lupin stayed oddly quiet, his hands fisted at his sides as he stood there, staring at the grass beneath his feet. Dew clung to the short blades, glittering beautifully. The lines around his eyes had deepened, and she could see his jaw clenched tightly as he stood there, staring into nothing. The guilt reared up, seizing her heart, and Hermione shut her eyes together tightly, attempting to focus.

_Find a way to escape,_ she continued as the silence waned on. It was almost deafening, standing there, listening to Lupin's harsh silence. She couldn't even begin to fathom what he was thinking, didn't _want to,_ but she knew that she had to do something, and soon. Because soon… the sun would be setting soon, and the moon would be out, and it was full and—_Objective two: Don't let Malfoy __**win.**_

A soft, gentle breeze blew through area, and Hermione could feel the hysterical laughter bubbling to the surface, itching to get out. It started low in the pit of her stomach, curling upwards, unfurling as it reached her throat, and she bit down on her tongue to stop it. _Objective three: Save—_

"If I try to hurt you, kill me."

—_Remus._

"Wh_at_?" Hermione asked, her voice wavering. Because… because… _no_, she thought, viciously shaking her head. _I can't kill you, Remus. I have to __**save**__ you._ But he didn't hear her, nor did she want him to. His face was set, his shoulders stiff, and he turned towards her, his amber eyes strangely wet.

_(There had been something __**wrong.**__)_

The grief swallowed Hermione whole, suffocating her.

"If I attempt to hurt you," Lupin repeated more slowly. "I want you to kill me."

"But… _Remus_—"

"Listen to_ me_," he insisted, as though it were everything. "I trust your judgment, Hermione. You are a very intelligent witch, and your intellect shall get you far. You remember everything on werewolves, correct?" Hermione nodded, her body shaking at the kindness in his voice. "Keep it in your head. Whatever you do, do not forget that information. You're going to need it."

Her throat was tight, and she found that, if she tried hard enough, she couldn't remember. But that was not something that Lupin wanted to hear, not then, not now, and she wouldn't let it take control. She had to think things then, had to think about things she didn't want to think about at all. Slowly, she recalled her third year, the lessons with Lupin, the Sirius Black incident, Buckbeak's trial, Malfoy's arrogance, Snape's lecture on werewolves, everything she had ever read—

"You… I'm… I'm supposed to _save_ you—"

"Werewolves, Ms. Granger," Lupin interrupted. "And please remember, I wish to save you as well. So, tell me, what do you remember about werewolves?"

"I… I _can't_—"

"Try harder, Hermione." Hermione's heart stuttered, a sob clinging to her throat. Lupin examined her delicately, all dark resignation and something other than hate—_something other than hate_—and if Hermione guessed, she knew it would be love. Because he loved her. Zabini had said so, had read his words, and Hermione felt her world spinning because _it was not supposed to end like this._ Lupin reached forward, his fingers skimming the back of Hermione's knuckles and she latched onto him, squeezing tightly.

"I can't take it back," she gasped, heart clenching painfully. "Oh, Remus, I can't take it _back._"

"Hermione," he said firmly, pulling her closer. "Try to _remember._"

"Silver hurts them," Hermione regurgitated, facts spinning through her head at lightening fast speed. Her palms began to sweat in Lupin's own. "They transform under the full moon. They don't run in packs. They… crave the… Remus?" Hermione asked, the tears streaming down her face. Lupin merely gave her a tired smile and tugged on her hands again, urging her to continue. She opened her mouth, her tongue thick and heavy, but she continued on anyways, because there was nothing left to do. (_I have to __**save**__ him._) "They crave the flesh of infants, but they also eat corpses. They spread their lycanthropy through biting their prey, although if their prey is scratched by their claws, they may also be infected. Wolfsbane—"

"Not quite," Lupin said, his fingers rubbing soothing circles in the back of Hermione's hand. "But good enough."

Hermione's eyes widened and she wanted nothing more than to yank her hands away from his, wanted to be anywhere but there, staring at him as the Death Eaters stared at her, waiting to see what she would do next. She counted the objectives in her head once more, hoping for an opening… something. Lupin merely looked at her again, and her chest tightened, feeling chill and hollow. The grief was already welling up within her because how could he ask that of her? Knowing that, in her mind, she would still consider him important? Still care for him? Still want him to live because he shone so brightly, was so human, it was painful? There was no monster there, just madness, just someone to fear, just someone who was trapped with no way out.

She couldn't kill him; she wouldn't.

"Her_mi_one," Lupin said sternly, his hands tightening painfully on hers. "Do as I say."

Hermione shook her head and pulled her hands away. "I'm sorry Remus," she continued, her voice filled with despair. "But I just _can't._"

"I'm a monster, Hermione," Lupin answered, his voice calm. Her jaw trembled, the tears burning her eyes.

"No. _No!_ You _aren't_—I saw, remember? Your words... I _read_ them. And third year with Sirius... I was there, I remember, you left, you didn't—"

Lupin's lips twisted into a painful smile. "I might not have killed before, but I have hurt before. Did Severus never tell you? It's true; James did save his life—"

"_NO!_" Hermione shrieked again, clamping her hands over her ears as though that would keep his voice from filtering in her mind. She could still hear his request over and over again as she attempted to block it out, to forget it. No matter what she did, it would be there, lodged in her heart, piercing and painful, and she could _feel_ it. But she didn't want to hear it. Lupin gripped her shoulders tightly, pressed his forehead against her own.

"Hermione," he began softly, only to be interrupted as she let out a loud, horrible sob, her breath stuck somewhere in her throat.

She wasn't sure what to do; all she knew was that she couldn't do what he wanted her to do. No way. No how. She could save him; she could _save_ him.

But she wouldn't have the chance, and he knew that.

Lupin seemed to know everything these days.

"I'll always forgive you, Hermione," Lupin said, drawing closer to her. "But you have to survive. _You_ have to survive."

"But I can…"

"You aren't really in the position to do much of anything, if we're being honest." A strange, almost hesitant look passed over his face, and Hermione wished it away. It remained. "Are we?"

Hermione shook her head, her hands still grasping her ears. The pain was immediate, absolute, but there was still something else there, something else that seemed just a little bit like hope. Harry would have found some way to save him. Harry would have done everything in his power to keep his friend and mentor from dying. Harry would have ran, would fought kicking and screaming, would have gotten one up on Malfoy before the situation could have ever come to this. Harry would have refused Lupin, too.

But Harry would have meant it.

There was something distinctly unsettling about that thought and even through the torrid of emotions that she was feeling, she knew that she shouldn't have thought that. Shouldn't have had to. But Lupin had the ability to make her think strange things to begin with, so it really shouldn't have been a surprise.

Hermione pressed her hands harder against her ears, resisting the urge to scream.

_No, _she thought as she curled against his chest, the lingering dew chilling the tips of her fingers. _I can save Lupin, I _can. _He doesn't have to die, he doesn't need to, Harry could find a way to save him, Harry would_—

Lupin sighed and pressed his fingers to her face, wiping away her tears.

"Perhaps we made a mistake, giving you children so much responsibility," Lupin murmured, grabbing Hermione by the shoulder and subtly inched her back from him. "But you have to stop hurting, Hermione. We're in a war; this, right now, is the by product of that. It is nowhere near pleasant, I admit but… you'll be all right." His hand shifted then, rested on the back of her neck, and he pulled her into a gentle hug.

Hermione wasn't sure how long she stood there, shivering against him, but the pain was still flaring bright and hot and she wanted nothing to do with it. She knew he was saying goodbye. He had refused to touch her before, so very frozen by her betrayal, so hurt but now—his hands were like cold fire on her back, and she wanted to scream out, so very badly. She wanted to wrestle away from him, to be anywhere but where she was, and yet…

She knew that she couldn't. It was all she could give.

With a desperate sob, Hermione wrapped her arms around Remus. He was all hard lines and a too thin body, but Hermione could feel the strength building in those muscles, could sense the madness rising up, the infection pumping swiftly through his body as the full moon approached—his grip on her tightened painfully, but Hermione bore it. She bore it because he needed it, because he wasn't a monster and he _loved_ her and she knew _she loved him, too, _but Lupin was ready to _die for her. _Die _because_ of her. Die just to keep her _alive._

Her muscles gave a spasm, the sheer wonder of that thought causing the pain to escalate, twining around her ribs and pulling, trapping the air in her lungs. It hurt too much to breathe.

She had been willing to die for him, too. Why wasn't that enough?

Remus lingered for a moment longer then pulled away. "Wand at the ready."

Her fingers shook as she gripped it tightly, raising it level with his chest. She was supposed to save him, supposed to make things better and yet—

"As soon as I start to attack you, I want—"

"Please forgive me," Hermione whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut. "Please say you'll forgive me. For… everything."

Lupin studied her intently and nodded. "I'll forgive you."

_Of course, _her mind supplied. _He'll forgive you. But they won't; _Harry _won't._

And that, she supposed, was going to hurt most of all.

…

_**8:47 p.m.**_

Malfoy watched as he transformed, oddly entranced with the scene in front of him.

Granger was there, tears dripping from her jaw bone as she held her wand, poised and ready to strike. Ready for anything. Ready for—

_Death, _his mind supplied, but he pushed it away. Despite her valiant efforts of self-sacrifice, she was still too weak to go through with it. There was still someone else willing to bear the brunt of her traitorous choices—and it was amusing, Draco thought, watching her struggle just to ensure that _Potter_ wouldn't suffer the loss of any of those he loved. Lupin loved Granger, as disgusting and disturbing as that was, and judging by her reaction, she may have cared for him, too, but Potter—he was the focus. The reason Granger was so determined to see her mistakes through to the end.

Malfoy sneered internally.

Whether it was her end or the werewolf's end, it didn't matter. Someone was going to die—the Order of the Phoenix was going to _hurt_ and Malfoy was going to enjoy being the one to do it.

And should Lupin survive this ordeal, which was entirely likely, then the cold, chilling taste of the Killing Curse would kiss his skin, branding it white-hot with Malfoy's malevolence.

His mission had been to kill Lupin, and he had accepted it without a second thought. At first, he had been disgusted at the thought of having to penetrate the Sanctuary, of having to pretend at caring for werewolves. After Finnigan's untimely death, Malfoy had given it a day, prepared to leave the very night for the Sanctuary, to hopefully put his master's plan in motion—spreading poisonous words was easy; finding out who was sentimental towards Lupin's ideals, who was the closest and could _get to him _the fastest—his limbs had been heavy, sluggish with his lack of sleep and his tireless preparations for departure, and he needed only to speak to Blaise for a quick moment.

And then Granger had appeared. And she had _information_ on the werewolves.

It was obvious Blaise had been the traitor. Granger didn't have a wicked bone in that mudblood body of hers and he knew that whatever information she had was only going to be added to, not taken from. It had been lucky, manipulating her the way he did. Giving up the Weasel—well, Blaise _was_ a blood-traitor and his father had not taught him the fine art of Occlumency for no reason. Lying to his master put a bad taste in his mouth, but he could manage it. Some horrible part of him was almost _hoping _that Granger would survive—if she did, if she managed to save herself, then Malfoy would milk her for every piece of information he could. If she survived, she'd have to kill Lupin though. Have to retain enough self-preservation and selfishness to cast the curse that would leave him cold and dead on the floor; it was the only spell that could do it. Nothing else would work.

But if she survived… Blaise would interfere. Malfoy knew it. He couldn't understand why Blaise would be so quick to turn traitor—he had been a real pureblood, understanding the _essence _of it, the truth behind their master's words. Blaise—Malfoy didn't get him anymore. He was just there, staring out into the small paddock. Staring at Granger as the tears dripped down her face and… and he couldn't understand. What was it that made him want to defect in the first place? Why now? Why _Granger_ of all people? He couldn't help but look back at Blaise, watch as he sat there, leaning against the tree, his legs crossed in front of him. His hands were picking at his robes; Malfoy frowned. Was he nervous?

"Blood-traitor—"

"I'd rather not," Zabini said quickly, turning away from the scene in front of him. The chain at his neck glinted silver "I'd rather not see this."

Malfoy's lips twisted. "It's your fault," he answered cruelly, his sneer growing as Zabini turned dark eyes on him. "I mean, if you hadn't have allied with a mudblood, and _Granger_ at that, then—"

"She's going to die," Zabini responded, getting to his feet. "You're a fool if you don't think her allies won't seek retribution. Her death will be on _your_ head."

There was something distinctly off about his voice, something that made Malfoy's stomach churn unpleasantly as he stared at the tall black boy in front of him. Zabini was—Malfoy didn't want to believe it, but the blood-traitor had _already_… Malfoy sneered at Blaise and turned away. Granger was still there, still staring, and Lupin's screams were cutting through the air as he transformed. Malfoy could hear his bones cracking and twisting as they morphed, could see his skin graying to a thin, papery like substance. Could see the scar grow jagged and taut against his back as he clutched his body, his nails digging into his sides. He saw the blood dripping as the claws grew longer, could see Granger's face pale as she stood her ground. Could see her trembling with fear as she tried her hardest not to break.

He had heard what Lupin had told her earlier, but for some reason, he could taste that disgusting bile on his tongue as he watched them. Could tell that Granger was going to try and save him.

It sickened Malfoy, more than he wanted to admit.

But he couldn't stop. It had already happened, things were already in motion. So _what_ Zabini didn't want to be there to see his precious Granger torn into shreds? Malfoy could admit to himself that it would be better for him if she wasn't killed, but having the power to cripple Potter so _effectively…_

Potter was going to _break_.

He wanted to see Potter suffused with darkness, littered with scars, wounds unable to be healed over. He wanted to see Potter festering with infection, underneath the wound. Needed to see him broken and bleeding and oozing with bitter, unstable emotions. He needed Potter teetering on that precipice, because it was the only way to win the war, the only way to make them understand what greatness and blood purity _meant_. And if breaking Potter meant hurting _Granger, _well. He could manage that.

Fighting Lupin meant that she would claw until her fingers were broken and bloodied just to survive. He wanted to see the bone protruding from her flesh, shattered into tiny pieces all around her. He wanted to see her blood, so bright and red and sticky, drying on her skin, wanted to see the wounds open and slippery, all around her. He wanted to see the tears in her eyes that she refused to cry, not like she was doing now, not like she would continue to do, if she didn't do something quick.

The blood lust was already there in Lupin's eyes, the rage quickly growing; the madness was all encompassing.

Malfoy welcomed it.

"She's going to die," Zabini said as Granger stood there, shaking.

The transformation was completed.

Malfoy watched, detached, as the wolf took stock of its surroundings, its eyes landing on Granger.

Her body shook as she readjusted her grip on her wand.

The tears continued to flow.

Malfoy turned away from the scene, too disgusted to watch anymore. He was ready to grab the blood-traitor, to order them away, but Zabini had moved forward, his hands gripping the fence tightly; the wood splintered, digging into his skin. Tiny beads of blood formed on the sides of Zabini's hands, but Blaise seemed unaware; his dark face was the mask of blankness, but a fire was growing in his eyes as he watched the scene play out in front of him. A sickness churned in Malfoy's stomach. Blaise was a blood-traitor; he _would_ worry about his disgusting little mudblood after all.

Malfoy scowled.

"Zabini." He grabbed Blaise's arm and held on tight. The dark-skinned man looked at him. "It's time we left."

Even as Zabini released the fence, looking back as the wolf continued to circle around Granger, who was doing everything in her power to keep her eyes on it, Malfoy couldn't stop that horrible, all encompassing _fear_ from rising within him. He could feel it pricking the underside of his skin, vicious and relentless, trying to drown him.

He wondered if his bones would splinter, too.

"She's going to—"

The wolf pounced.

Her scream reverberated in his skull, even after he had apparated.

The disgust was like cold fire in his chest, and it felt empty.

As much as she wanted to deny it, Granger wasn't going to save Lupin. Or herself. She was just a _mudblood, _after all.

And Potter wasn't there to save her.

…

_**8:52 p.m.**_

It had been foolish wanting to save him. That much was for certain.

Hermione wasn't entirely sure how it had gotten to be this way, wasn't sure why she had allowed herself to do so. It would have been so much easier to just lift her wand and say the two most Unforgivable words in existence—how wonderful it would have been to see the world flash green, just as Lupin was transforming. But just like always, something had been there to hold her back… she didn't want the cold, horrible desolation. Didn't want that feeling of dirtiness sullying her soul and eating at her mind.

She knew that she was almost there, though. Knew with an utmost certainty that the blackness was licking at her skin like flame against wood, charring it. Changing it. She would become brittle and twisted and ugly, like she was already feeling. There was no way that she could save him now, but there just _had_ to be. Harry wouldn't forgive her if anything were to happen to Lupin—he was the only person that Harry had left, the last connection. Even if Harry didn't spend as much time with Lupin as he should have, even if Harry had run straight into death just to save Ginny—and Ginny was safe now. Zabini had said as much. At first, Ginny was nothing more than a strategic loss. It wasn't even as though the Order really _needed_ her—and _she didn't need these horrible wicked thoughts, either, but there were there, and they would never go away_. They were there because Lupin was there, and funny how everything always came back to Harry's feelings and what Harry wanted and—

Lupin's claws dripped blood, and all she could do was cry.

It would have been easier, maybe, if she wasn't so determined to save him. She'd never used a magical spell against a werewolf before and didn't know how well one would work, but she was almost certain that a simple _Impedimenta _wouldn't have done a single thing to stop Lupin if he were to charge at her.

But she had to save him anyways.

Her wand was slipping in her sweaty hand as she adjusted her grip, and she couldn't feel the eyes of Zabini or Malfoy on her anymore. She thought to turn around, but then again, she thought a lot of things and none of them ever did her any good anymore. None of her hopes or dreams or wishes did her _any_ good and—and now she was stuck in some unknown place surrounded by magic that continued to thrum, prickling unpleasantly at her skin, a reminder of what would happen should she try to escape—_they're gone, I can save him, they're gone and I can SAVE him_—but then she turned her head ever so slightly, just to make sure and—

Lupin growled, low and deep in his throat, and Hermione snapped her head back around to face him.

There was a sort of mad clarity in his eyes then, even as he reared back, but they were still the same familiar amber that she was so used to seeing. They were clouded over with hate and hunger, but werewolves enjoyed the flesh of infants and corpses, not grown women (_not Hermione)_ but even as her wand shook and her mind continued to scramble for that little bit of information that she knew would save her, she could see the werewolf—

—_Not Lupin, not Lupin, not LUPIN_—

(_Remus is __**human.**__)_

—rearing back as its jaws opened, and before she even thought to lift her wand, the scream was spilling passed her lips and—

_Drop, tuck, roll…_

So fluid, like water, curling underneath the frightening spectacle that sailed over her. Reflex was never one of her strong points, but battling time and time again seemed to have helped her _somehow_, even though somehow was never definite. Her wand stabbed her in her side as she righted herself, only to throw herself sideways because the werewolf was—_too fast, I can't keep up, too fast_—and before she even stopped to think about it, she was running towards the other end of the paddock, listening intently to the harsh breathing of the wolf behind her. It was almost terrifying the way that the cool air burned in her lungs, and the moisture made it difficult to run as the rubber of her sneakers slipped against the wet ground.

She wasn't sure what the wolf was doing, didn't even bother to look. She hit the fence once, feeling the splinters digging into her skin, and then she pushed off and spun, hitting the ground hard as the Other Lupin crashed into the wood. The logs splintered, hard thick chunks ricocheting uncomfortably off Hermione's back. Hermione barely bothered to grab for her wand as she jumped up, the wood planks sliding uncomfortably over her shirt and arms.

She knew it was a mistake as she slipped over the thick chunks of wood, the werewolf righting itself with just as much difficulty as she had. But the more she tried to take hold of her wand, the harder it became, and the disorientation seemed so lovely and precise—maybe it was and maybe it wasn't, but who was she to know, really, because Lupin was always Lupin despite being Lupine and maybe that wasn't his fault, anyhow. But that hadn't made any sense _either_, and Hermione didn't want the madness in her mind.

(_Her head was pounding._)

And speaking of madness, madness seemed to surround her wherever she went. _Harry would have saved him,_ because Harry had saved Sirius, had tried to save Lupin before. But this wasn't Lupin, because Lupin was kind and uncomfortable, not unstable, and Hermione could hardly find it in herself to save something that was a _mistake._

_But not_, her mind tried to scream, but then her mind was screaming plenty of things, as were her lips and her lungs, and her lungs still burned as she moved towards the other side of the paddock, her wand slippery in her sweaty palm.

There had to be another way. Another something that wasn't a mistake, _but mistakes are mistakes are mistakes _and the Other Lupin was her enemy not her friend.

And werewolves eat infants and corpses_._ Corpses fresh and bloody. Corpses that they could kill themselves if given the chance, but the Other Lupin hadn't been given the chance yet, and _Harry would have saved him_, and Hermione liked to think that she would have too, but she wasn't nearly as strong enough. Werewolves bit people, too, and scratched them and harmed them, but—

_Not quite…_

Hermione wanted to scream in frustration as the air burned in her lungs, because there was something she was missing. Lupin remembered it before he became Other Lupin, but he hadn't told her. She couldn't understand why—Lupin should have told her everything. But then Lupin _had_ told her everything, because he had told her that she was not quite right and that had to be wrong, but there was the mistake and—

She barely managed to throw herself to the ground as the wolf sailed over her, its claws snagging the fabric of her shirt, tearing it. Hermione felt the claws prick the skin of her shoulders, just barely, but she couldn't be bothered with it. She had wanted to, because there was something dangerous about the way the cold air stung her back and she felt something warm begin to rise up against her flesh.

The itch started low, rising up, closer and closer to her skin, and she felt like batting it away in annoyance. Like a fly, buzzing around her head incessantly, only flies didn't buzz, bees did, but flies were just as annoying. And the more she thought about it, the more she realized it felt like a bee-sting; quick and sharp and irritatingly painful, but nowhere near painful enough. The werewolf heaved, the skin on its back stretching grotesquely against its vertebrae, outlining them. Hermione had to resist the urge to see each and everyone of those vertebrae crack—

—_bone protruded from the torn flesh, but the rivulets of crimson she had expected to see were absent, unnoticeable_—

_It hurts my ears listening to it._

He looked like Him then, that she could remember, even though she saw the amber eyes flash with bloodlust. The skin was the same, grey and sickly, but His sagged where the Other Lupin's was tight and covered in veins that she thought about slicing open, just so she could watch him bleed—_The Dead love blood, he seemed to say—_even if it was wrong.

But killing people was silly, even though it wasn't Him that said that, but someone more like him, even as she turned and moved in the other direction. Her palm was too sweaty to hold her wand any longer, and she felt as though she were slipping farther and farther away from the situation; Hermione knew that she should have smelt the stink of the wolf's breath and wondered why she couldn't hear it breathing, but everything was invading her mind once again, dragging her closer and closer to someplace she couldn't quite remember.

_Not quite…_

And she didn't belong there, either. But there was nowhere that she belonged, the muscles in her legs burned, and she felt that she needed to stop. The stitch in her side had crept up so unassumingly; she barely even felt it as she readjusted the grip on her wand and tried to move through the haze. Colors were as indistinguishable as ever and _there was no stink of the wolf's breath anywhere near her_ but _killing people is silly._

_Werewolf attacks seldom_—but not quite, because her ankle rolled over and she was tumbling to the ground and pushing herself up, despite the sudden ache in her bone.

There was a mistake somewhere that she had made, but _Harry would have saved him_ and—

_Hermione is not Harry, _she thought as the itch rose higher and the situation became vaguer. She blinked and nodded as she ran, and she absently noticed that both Malfoy and Zabini were gone, because surely the Other Lupin would have gone after them if he had seen them, and there was an answer somewhere.

Maybe it was Him who reminded her of the other person who wasn't quite him, but quite ugly as well. Cruel and wicked and evil maybe, for making her remember things when she shouldn't have, even though she should. The wet grass became less of a concern, because Hermione's legs were like jelly at that point, and she was so tired of running, but the werewolf wasn't nearly so tired of chasing. Perhaps it knew, just like she should have that it was all just a game. Perhaps it wanted her to feel frightened and terrified, but that was farthest from her mind because _Objective One: find a way to escape._

That was what it all came down to. Three's weren't that pretty anyways. Trinities never quite mattered where she came from; after all, hers had broken—

—_bone protruded from the torn flesh, but the rivulets of crimson she had expected to see were absent, unnoticeable—_

_Werewolf attacks seldom leave the victim alive to transform._

Harry would have saved him.

_Killing people is silly._

But, her mind supplied, and her wand slipped from her grasp just as the grass slipped out from under her. The claws caught in her flesh and tore through skin and fat and muscle, but the voice that was hers couldn't scream. She wanted to, felt the disgusting need to because it was too much too fast and her blood was bright and red and—

Harry would have saved him, because killing people was silly.

_But he's not a person_, she managed darkly through the horrible screaming pain (but that was her, always her, because her voice found a way to scream, even through the pain) and she knew that the Dead loved blood, even her blood, because it had—_werewolves could make their own corpses, too_—and she had better things to do than to be a corpse, never a corpse.

She was _not quite _dead and bleeding and her wand was only a few inches away.

The wolf turned, its saliva dripping from its jaws, its grey skin shifting disgustingly. She could have vomited, had she tried. Hermione thought she wanted to. But something clamped down on that reaction, even as the wolf knelt before her and licked the torn chunks of flesh from its claws. Her fingers moved slowly, the muscles over her shoulders contracting and bleeding more profusely with each twitch she made. But the pain was something she could handle. The pain was something she could deal with.

The euphoria made it easy.

Lupin had said he'd forgive her, even if she was unforgivable, even if she couldn't quite manage. And it wasn't Lupin anyhow, because Lupin was kind and uncomfortable, not unstable, not things that he was never meant to be. The scar twitched as the werewolf redirected its focus, the amber eyes glowing as the bloodlust increased.

But the prey was caught and injured and couldn't move—shaky, pale, sweaty, and _bleeding_, because she had tried to save him, even though she couldn't. She had tried to save someone who wasn't a person and even though he was a werewolf she had been stupid enough to think he was an actual _person,_ even though—

_I'm a monster, Hermione._

Her wand was gripped in blood spattered fingers as the wolf sat back on its haunches, ready to spring. She could tell by the way the eyes changed from amber to obsidian, and there was nothing remotely Other Lupin about Other Lupin, just Other. Other something. Something Other than human. Something Other than Lupin. Hermione wanted to laugh at the irony, because she had never really been one for riddles or word games, but that was all it had ever been and now—

_Killing people is silly._

_I'm a monster, Hermione._

The muscles flexed over bones so spectacularly, Hermione was almost caught up, even as the dripping saliva burned into her wounds. She thought about Harry and how he would have saved him, but there were more important things than being saved, like how her mind was so jumbled and broken, because there was a _mistake,_ and even she was a fallacy. Just like Lupin and Other Lupin and something Other than Lupin. Her arm jerked around, shaking in pain as blood spilled faster, and she could feel the scream surging past her lips as she recited the spell, and then she was Unforgivable even as the world flashed green.

The body was heavy and dead, and the flesh so disgusting to feel, but before she could stop herself, she dragged her nails across one of the bulging veins, wishing that, for once, her nails were just a little bit sharper. But they weren't, and the cold empty feeling that was growing made her want to vomit.

Then again, she already had, as soon as the werewolves claws had dug into her back, because no one could deal with pain like that and—

The memory was too distant for her to remember, but she could taste the vomit on her tongue.

Hermione didn't like that.

Besides, he was a Monster, so he deserved what he got.

…_Not quite…_

_Killing people is silly._

It only took her a moment before she realized that it wasn't bile that she tasted on her tongue.

_Harry would have saved him._

_I should have_.


End file.
